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Teacher in Literature 



AS PORTRAYED IN THE WRITINGS OF 



ASGHAM, MOLIERE, ROUSSEAU, SHENSTONE, FULLER, PESTALOZZI, 
COWPER, GOETHE, IRVING, MiTFORD, BRONTE, THOMP- 
SON, THACKERAY, HUGHES, DICKENS, 
ELIOT AND OTHERS. 



INCLUDING 

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH AND CHARACTERIZATION 
OF EACH AUTHOR. 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

HARRY PRATT JUDSON, 

Head Dean of the Colleges, 
UNIVEKSITY OF CHICAGO. 



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CHICAGO 

The Werner Company 

1893 



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Copyright, 1893, 

The Werner Compaisy, 

Chicago. 



OOS'TES'TS. 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION, 5 

ROGER ASCHAM, 13 

Extracts from Toxophilus, . . . . . . .15 

Extracts from the Scholemastee, 18 

JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE, 21 

The Education of M. Jourdain, 22 

JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU, .36 

Quick's Adaptation and Summary of Emile, ... 37 

WILLIAM SHENSTONE, . 59 

The Schoolmistress, 60 

THOMAS FULLER, 68 

The Good Schoolmaster, 68 

Of Memory, 70 

JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZI, 72 

The School in Bonnal, 76 

WILLIAM COWPER, 96 

Tirocinium; or, A Review of Schools, 97 

The Sage Called ** Discipline," 116 

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE, 120 

Selections from Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre, . 121 

WASHINGTON IRVING, 163 

IcHABOD Crane, 164 

(a) 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, 172 

The Village Schoolmistress, . . » . . . . 173 
Dr. Courtly's School, 184 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 187 

LowooD School, 188 

DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON, . . . . . . .214 

The School in the Horn of the Moon, .... 214 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 239 

Miss Pinkerton's School, 240 

Dr. Swishtail's Academy, . 255 

Mr. Veal's School, 267 

THOMAS HUGHES, . . . . . . . . . .275 

Chapters from Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby, . 276 

CHARLES DICKENS, . .308 

Dr. Blimber's School, 309 

Dotheboys Hall, 350 

GEORGE ELIOT, 381 

The Night School and the Schoolmaster, . . . 382 
Tom's First Half, 388 

D'ARCY WEXTWORTH THOMPSON, 410 

Day-Dreams of a Schoolmaster, 411 



lETEODUCTIOlSr. 



Mr. Herbert Spencer's definition of life* is apt to strike one 
at first sight as ineffably fnnny . It is easier, however, to laugh at 
the grave pedantry than to propose a substitute. It was M. Jour- 
dain who talked prose forty years before he found it out. And 
we have been living, lo ! these many years, but would find it hard 
to say what life is. Still, there are one or two things without 
which life would not be life, things so plain that "he w^ho runs 
may read." 

One of these is change. Changeless finality, death — these ideas 
are equivalent. All life with which we are acquainted implies the 
constant action and interaction of forces which are ceaselessly 
making that which is into something which noW' it is not. Phys- 
ical life is a continual flux of matter. The molecules which make 
up one's body are always changing — some passing off into space, 
others taking their place. And these molecules are portions of 
matter which have already existed in countless combinations. 
One eats a bit of sugar. It goes into the blood, and helps the 
heart to beat and the brain to kindle. But sugar is a mere hydro- 
carbon. And these particles of coal and water, w'hence came 
they? Who knows? Floating in the air when the coal measures 
were forming, imprisoned in earth strata, or tossing in the oceans 
during long ages, perhaps gushing from Caesar's veins under the 
dagger of Brutus, perhaps throbbing in Shakspeare's brain as it 



*Life is " ttie definite combination of heterogeneous changes, both simultaneons 
and successive, in correspondence with external coexistences and sequences." 
Principles of Biology, I, 74. 

(5) 



6 INTRODUCTION. 

created the Merchant of Venice. Who knows? Matter is our 
common inheritance. It hnks us one to another through the 
centuries. 

And is the mind changeless ? It responds with delicate sensi- 
tiveness to each change in the environment. New thoughts, new 
feelings, new opinions, all these crowd one upon another, and 
create a constantly renewing personality. The thread of memory 
binds the youth of one score to the man of three. But after all 
in character they are vitally different entities. 

Another* fact about life is equally important. 

Every individual exists in some given environment. This, 
to be sure, is not fixed and unalterable. Nothing in life is. And 
the surroundings of any human soul are never wholly at rest, 
but are changing continually. And then no two individuals can 
ever have exactly the same environment, any more than they 
can have exactly the same personality. Still, granting all this, 
it remains true that on the whole the environment of great 
masses of people is substantially the same, just as in its broad 
outlines the environment of most individuals can be predicted 
with fair accuracy. 

But with all this it is also evident that it is quite possible 
to make material modifications in individuality, thus varying 
character to suit selected conditions of life. 

It is obvious that the highest degree of plasticity is found in 
youth. Then body and mind alike are continually assuming 
new forms. The character is in the gristle. Even the future 
environment is apt to be an unknown quantity, and often may 
be selected from not a few alternatives. With this extreme plas- 
ticity comes the possibility of directing the successive changes 
which constitute growth in such way as to adapt the individual 
to given conditions of life. And this is what we mean by education 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

—producing changes in the individual designed to adapt him to 
a specific environment. 

But fitness for an environment is a very broad term. In its 
narrower sense it may include no more than qualification to pur- 
sue a trade or profession. In its wider sense it comprehends 
every relation of life, and so includes the whole of individual 
character. And in this sense it at once appears that it must be 
very difficult to decide the exact source of a particular quality. 
When one confronts a difficult position and proves fit to cope 
with it, there is probable evidence that at some time there has 
been given just the right training for that emergency. But in all 
likelihood it would not be easy to point out just when that 
training was received, or who w^as responsible for it. And this is 
one striking peculiarity of the teacher's calling. Much of the 
best work of heart and brain seems to have vanished away — 
dissipated among the invisible and silent forces that move so- 
ciety. The engineer may build a bridge, the architect may rear a 
stately mansion, and either is the material and lasting embodi- 
ment of the creative intelligence. The true teacher multiplies 
himself many fold in the life and character of others. But in so 
doing he transforms the personality which he thus transfuses, 
and so his identity disappears. How different is this from the 
literary life. The poet or the historian may in his works rear a 
monument more enduring than brass. His real self is there ex- 
pressed, and it is open to all the world to read and comprehend. 
The true Carlyle is found in Sartor Resartus, the true Milton in 
Paradise Lost, and not in the mere idle frippery and wish-wash 
of daily life which vulgar curiosity exploits. The teacher's mon- 
uments are living books which may indeed be read and pondered 
by all who have the art of deciphering this sentient and breath- 
ing language. But alas! these tomes are anonymous. Their 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

authorship is more complex than modern criticism assigns to 
the Pentateuch, and quite as obscure. 

While it is hard, then, to estimate precisely any one influence 
that tends to form character, still there are some few criteria of 
educational work which may be applied with success. 

One thing which invariably attends teaching of the highest 
excellence is this — both teacher and taught find happiness in 
their work. 

Most of us can remember some one instructor at least who was 
a martinet. He (or she) was a slave driver. Sheer terror is a 
powerful motive, and it may well be believed that such a school 
moved with the beautiful precision of a machine. Lessons were 
learned, and learned thoroughly, for who would dare neglect a 
task? Intellect seemed fairly to sprout, so rapid and thorough 
was the progress made. Indeed, "thorough" was the motto, 
and much in the spirit in which Strafford used it in those arrogant 
days before the parliament people chopped off his head. How 
the little wretches shivered as they studied the teacher's stern 
face. 

"Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes .... 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned." 

But all this is not education. 

The boy who associates Botany with a beating, or Latin con- 
jugations with a leather strap, is not apt to grow really fond of 
either science. But beyond all this the whole character is injured 
far more than the intellect is benefited. Living habitually in an 
atmosphere of fear and ill-will hardly tends to form the most 
charming disposition imaginable. 



ISTRODUCTION. 9 

In strong; contrast is the method of the teacher who has 
higher ideals. He remembers that after all a happy life is worth 
having, and that school may well be its happiest part. Work is 
not in itself a curse and what makes it irksome is rather the 
spirit and atmosphere of it. It may become the most cheerful and 
delightful of occupations. Soj is always found in the exercise 
of power. What boy in his play does not put forth abundant 
and long continued energy? But he enjoys it. And the teacher 
who knows how can make the daily tasks of the school a con- 
stant fund of pleasurable exertion. It matters little what the 
subject matter is. It may be spelling, or arithmetic, or even 
grammar. Colonel Parker insisted some years since that no 
class of children ever really enjoyed the study of grammar in 
the old-fashioned way, and that if they seemed happy it was 
mere delusion. But that is all wrong. Plenty of young people 
have found keen zest in the parsing and analysis which once 
dominated the schools and which alas! as some of us know 
too well, w^ere wont to make a mere congeries of bones out of 
such poems as Thanatopsis and Lalla Rookh. But even osteol- 
ogy may be made interesting. 

No, the methods may be superannuated. The subject matter 
may be relatively useless. But if the work affords constant hap- 
piness, we may be sure that the teaching has one element at 
least of the rarest merit. 

What is the secret of it? It is not easj" to analyze such gifts. 
And yet there are one or two things on which they seem to 
depend. One certainly is that very rare and almost indescribable 
quality whi(4i we may perhaps call the sense of proportion. 

Every thought and fact in life bear some sort of relation to 
other things, and their value and importance then will depend 
on the nature of these other thiDgs and on what the relation is. 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

To estimate the proportion of things justly, to know what is 
trivial and what is important, and why, are large part of the 
philosophy of life. He is always master of the situation who 
knows how to go right to the heart of the matter, disregarding 
trifles because they are trifles, and discerning clearly the differ- 
ence between trifles which really are so and other things appar- 
ently trivial but in fact of grave import. It has been said that 
to a wise man nothing is trifling. That doubtless is true abso- 
lutelj^ as everything has its important bearing on something 
else. But after all, true wisdom consists in seeing the bearing of 
facts, and hence in knowing that for a given purpose certain 
things are really unimportant, whatever their weight under other 
conditions. To the pedant all facts are alike. His intellect 
creates a sort of Chinese perspective, and he looks with grave 
approval on a junk whose captain is as tall as the mainmast 
and whose bowsprit rests sedately on a mountain top. 

The real teacher is not a pedant. He knows things in their 
relations, and has a just sense of proportionate values. 

Another thing on which the teacher's power depends is the 
quality of being interesting. And here at once is a puzzle. What 
is it that makes one man brimful of interest to all around him, 
and another a mere stick? Why is it that one pulpit orator has 
crowds hanging on his lips, while a second, of equal learning and 
abilities, is a mere Dryasdust? It is hard telling. It is much like 
trying to explain why the rose is fragrant, or why the music 
thrills. The old philosopher after all had hold of one end of a 
truth when he ascribed the action of the meat jack to "its inher- 
ent meat roasting capacity." But certainly no man can be very 
interesting to others unless he is interested himself. A bored 
acquiescence in the facts of life hardly tends to create a very 
entertaining personality. Then, too, a man who excites interest 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

in other people must be of suggestive quality. His mind is always 
bubbling with unexpected implications. With him ideas are never 
solitary. Every new notion he gets seems bristling with hooks 
on which to hang other notions. And this nameless and inde- 
scribable charm is part of the essence of the teacher, by which 
he inspires enthusiasm for any sort of work whatever. To be 
sure, some branches of study are of themselves more easily made 
enticing than others. But on the other hand some teachers can 
throw the charm of romance about a dry bone. In the right hands 
anything is interesting. 

Can all these things be learned ? 

Yes, largely. Of course there must be some innate qualities 
on which to build. But after all there is a wide range in possibil- 
ities. It is not an Arnold of Rugby or a Pestalozzi that we 
expect in every teacher. And the native capacities that fit one 
for high success in his calling are not uncommon, and may to a 
great extent be supplemented by culture. And, further, the ele- 
ments of success do not come from any one quality alone. There 
is diversity in gifts. And so the teacher who is alive will seek to 
imbibe from every source. He will always be eager for new 
thoughts. He will be like the description of a certain political 
party which had been for many years out of power, "very 
hungry and very thirsty " — but it is ideas which he will crave. 

It was the fortune of the writer some years ago to be 
acquainted with a young musician of brilliant promise. She was 
in love with music, and had no small power to interpret classical 
works. But the odd thing was that she was densely ignorant of 
the life and character of the masters. Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, 
Handel, were to her mere names, mere labels on her music, rolls. 
And it is difficult to see how one can understand the thoughts 
and know nothing of the thinkers. 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

While such ignorance seems incompatible with the true artist in 
music, it is vastly more incongruous in case of the teacher. He 
surely should be familiar both with the thoughts and the thinkers. 
His mind should be saturated with the best things that have 
been done and the wisest things that have been said through 
the ages. And there are few great minds w^hich have grappled 
with the problems of life without giving thought to the plas- 
tic years. 

The publishers have done a real service in gathering this 

group of great names and clustering about each not only 

some knowledge of the personality but also selections from 

the best that he has said. In this way the teacher can readily 

get a somewhat definite understanding of the ripest ideas in the 

world's fruitage that apply to his life work. To put essential 

knowledge in the reach of those who need it — is not this the 

mission of the modern press ? And where else in so small compass 

can be found so "wide a range of choice thinking ! Ascham and 

Moliere, Goethe, Dickens and George Eliot — the preceptor, the 

poet, the philosopher, the novelist — it is no aggregation of 

mere specialists, but a gathering of those who have thought 

most profoundly and most widely on every aspect of human life 

and society. And to not a few these tastes of thought will be a 

stimulus to get more. They will lead the way to the deeper 

springs of the intellectual life. He Avho quaffs will find this thirst 

not quenched, but unquenchable. And he will find also in that 

fact both joy and power. The teacher who has these has 

mastered his profession. 

Harry Pratt Judson. 



The Teacher m Literature. 



ROGER ASCHAM. 

1515-lo68. 

Roger Ascham was born at Kirby Wiske, a village in Yorkshire, 
England, in 1515, and graduated at the University of Cambridge at the 
early age of nineteen. The revival of Greek and Roman literature at 
about this period was peculiarly favorable to the natural bent of his 
inclinations, and he soon acquired such distinction as a scholar that he 
was selected as preceptor to Elizabeth, and subsequently he was elevated 
to the position of Latin secretary to the queen. 

It is said that he spent several hours every day in reading the learned 
languages to Queen Elizabeth and that her proficiency was equal to his 
pains. The readiness and elegance of his Latin style rendered him a 
useful member at court. He was greatly interested in the study of 
instrumental music, which enlivened his leisure hours and prepared his 
mind for renewed exertion. He also amused himself with embellishing 
the pages of his manuscripts with beautiful drawings, and in the field he 
took part in the diversion of archery. He did not deem his labors 
improperly bestowed in writing a book entitled " Toxophilus," in an age 
when the proper use of the bow was of more importance than for mere 
amusement. This work was written in a more natural, easy and truly 
English diction than had hitherto been in use, but it also abounded with 
beautiful allusions and curious fragments of English history. By reason 
of his great versatility and recognized learning, he was selected by Sec- 
retary Cecil and Sir Richard Sackville to prepare a book on the general 
subject of education which resulted in " The Scholem aster," a book con- 
taining "many excellent directions to the instruction of youth, particu- 
larly with regard to the teaching of languages.'' It was published by 
his widow after his death. 

By too close application in composing a poem which he intended to 
present to Queen Elizabeth on New Year's Day of 1569, he was seized by 
an illness which proved fatal. He died on the 23d of December, 1568. 
His death was universally lamented, and the queen expressed her regret 
by saying that she would "rather have lost £10,000 than her tutor 
Ascham." 

(13) 



14 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

It would perhaps have surprised Koger Ascham, the scholar of a 
learned age, and a Greek professor, that the history of English literature 
might open with his name; for in his English writings he had formed no 
premeditated work design(,^d for posterity as well as his own times. The 
subjects he has written on were solely suggested by the occasion, and 
incurred the slight of the cavilers of his day, who had not yet learned 
that humble titles may conceal performances which exceed their promise, 
and that trifles cease to be trivial in the workmanship of genius. An 
apology for a favorite recreation, that of archery, for his indulgence in 
which his enemies, and sometimes his friends, reproached the truant of 
academic Greek ; an account of affairs of Germany, while employed as 
secretary to the English embassy; and the posthumous treatise of the 
"Scholemaster," originating in an accidental conversation at table — 
constitute the whole of the claims of Ascham to the rank of an English 
classic, a. degree much higher than was obtained by the learning of Sir 
Thomas Elyot and the genius of Sir Thomas More. 

The mind of Ascham was stored with all the wealth of ancient litera- 
ture the nation possessed. Ascham was proud, when alluding to his 
master, the learned Cheke, and to his royal pupil, Queen Elizabeth, of 
having been the pupil of the greatest scholar, and a preceptor to the 
greatest pupil in England ; but we have rather to admire the intrepidity 
of his genius w^hich induced him to avow the noble design of setting an 
example of composing in our vernacular idiom. He tells us in his 
"Toxophilus," " I write this English matter in the English language, for 
Englishmen." He introduced an easy and natural style in English prose, 
instead of the pedantry of the unformed taste of his day, and adopted, 
as he tells us, the council of Aristotle, "to speak as the common peojile 
do, to think as the wise men do.'' 

"The Scholemaster," with its humble title, "to teach children to 
understand, write, and speak the Latin tongue," conveys an erroneous 
notion of the delight and the knowledge which may be drawn from this 
treatise, notwithstanding that the work remains incomplete, for there 
are references to parts which do not a])pear in the work itself. "The 
Scholemaster" is a classical production in English, which may be placed 
by the side of its great Latin rivals, the "Orations of Cicero" and the 
"Institutes of Quintilian." It is enlivened by interesting details. The 
first idea of the work was started in a real conversation at table, among 
some eminent personages, on occasion of the flight of some scholars fi'om 
Eton College, driven away by the iron rod of the master. "Was the 
schoolhouse to be a house of bondage and fear, or a house of play and 
])leasure?" During the i)rogress of the work the author lost his patron 
and incurred other disappointments. He has consigned all his variable 



ROGER ASCHAM. 15 

emotions to this volume. The accidental interview with Lady Jane 
Grey; his readings with Queen Elizabeth, in their daily intercourse with 
the fine writers of antiquity, and their recreations at the regal game of 
chess — for such was the seduction of Attic learning, that the queen on the 
throne felt a happiness in again becoming a pupil of her old master — 
these and similar instances present those individual touches of the writer 
which give such a realty to an author's feelings. 

The works of Ascham, which are collected in a single volume, remain 
for the gratification of those who preserve a pure taste for the pristine 
simplicity of our ancient writers. His native English, that English which 
we have lost, but which we are ever delighted to recover after nearly three 
centuries, is still critical without pedantry, and beautiful without orna- 
ment; and (which cannot be said of the writings of Sir Thomas Elyot 
and Sir Thomas More) the volume of Ascham is indispensable in every 
English library whose possessor in any way aspires to connect together 
the progress of taste and of opinion in our country. 

Isaac D'Israeli. 

The "Toxophilus" is, as its name imports, a treatise upon archery; 
and the main design of Ascham in writing it was to apologize for the zeal 
with which he studied and practiced the art of shooting, and to show the 
honor and dignity of the art in all nations and at all times, and its 
acknowledged utility not only in matters of war, but as an innocent and 
engaging pastime in times of peace. The whole work is in the dialogue 
form, the speakers being Toxophilus, a lover of archery, and Philologus, 
a student. 

The work goes fully into the practical part of the art, so that the 
" Schole for Shootinge " is a complete manual of archery, containing not 
only a learned history of the art, and the highest encomiums on its excel- 
lence and utility, but likewise the most minute practical details, even 
down to the species of goose from the wing of which the best feathers are 
to be plucked for the shaft. Charles D. Cleveland. 

Extracts from "Toxophilus."* 

I.— THE value of recreation. 

Philologus. How much is to be given to the authority either 
of Aristotle or Cicero I eaunot tell; this I am sure, which thing 
this fair wheat (God save it) maketh me remember, that those 

*From toxon, a bow, and philos, a friend. The original title is: " Toxophilus. 
the Schole of Shootinge, conteyned in II Bookes. To all Gentlemen and Yeomen 
of Englande, pleasaunte for theyr pastyme to rede, and profitable for tbeyr use 
to follow ; both in War and Peace." 



16 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

husbandmen which rise earliest, and come latest home, and are 
content to have their dinner and other drinkings brought into 
the field to them, for fear of losing of time, have fatter barns in 
harvest than they which will either sleep at noon-time of the 
day, or else make merry with their neighbors at the ale. And 
so a scholar that purposeth to be a good husband,* and desireth 
to reap and enjoy much fruit of learning, must till and sow there- 
after. Our best seed time, which be scholars, as it is very timely 
and when we be young, so it endureth not over long, and there- 
fore it may not be let slip one hour. 

Toxophilus. For contrariwise, I heard myself a good husband 
at his book once say, that to omit study sometime of the day, 
'and sometime of the year, made as much for the increase of 
learning, as to let the land lie sometime fallow maketh for the 
better increase of corn. This we see, if the land be ploughed 
every year, the corn cometh thin up; the ear is short, the grain 
is small, and when it is brought into the barn and threshed, 
giveth very evil fall, t So those who never leave poring on their 
books have oftentimes as thin invention as other poor men have, 
and as small wit and weight in it as in other men's. And thus 
your husbandry, methinks, is more like the life of a covetous 
snudge that oft very evil proves, than the labor of a good hus- 
band, that knoweth well what he doth. And surely the best wits 
to learning must needs have much recreation and ceasing from 
their book, or else they mar themselves; when base and dumpish 
wits can never be hurt with continual study; as ye see in luting, 
that a treble minikin string must always be let down, but at such 
time as when a man must needs play, when t the base and dull 
string needeth never to be moved out of his place. 

II.— IN PEAISE OF THE GOOSE. 

Toxophilus. Yet well fare the gentle goose, which bringeth to 
a man so many exceeding commodities ! For the goose is man's 
comfort in war and in peace, sleeping and waking. What praise 
soever is given to shooting, the goose may challenge the best 

* Husbandman. f Produce. J Whereas. 



ROGER ASCHAM. 17 

part of it. How well doth she make a man fare at his table! 
How easily doth she make a man lie in his bed ! How fit, even 
as her feathers be only for stooting, so be her quills for writing. 

Philologus. Indeed, Toxophile, that is the best praise you 
gave to a goose yet, and surely I would have said you had been 
to blame if you had overskipt it. 

Toxophilus. The Romans, I trow, Philologe, not so much 
because a goose with crying saved their capitolium, with their 
golden Jupiter did make a golden goose, and set her in the top 
of the capitolium, and appointed also the censors to allow, out 
of the common batch, yearly stipends for the finding of certain 
geese ; the Eomans did not, I say, give all this honor to a goose 
for that good deed only, but for other infinite mo,* which come 
daily to a man by geese; and surely if I should declaim in the 
praise of any manner of beast living, I would choose a goose. 
But the goose hath made us flee too far from our matter. 



III.— HIS APOLOGY FOR WRITING IN ENGLISH. 

If any man would blame me either for taking such a matter in 
hand, or else for writing it in the English tongue, this answer I 
may make him, that when the best of the realm think it honest 
for them to use, I, one of the meanest sort, ought not to suppose 
it vile for me to write ; and though to have written it in another 
tongue had been both more profitable for my study, and also 
more honest for my name, yet I can think my labor well be- 
stowed, if with a little hindrance of my profit and name may 
come any furtherance to the pleasure or commodity of the gentle- 
men and yeomen of England, for whose sake I took this matter 
in hand. And as for the Latin or Greek tongue, everything is so 
excellently done in them, that none can do better; in the English 
tongue, contrary, everything in a manner so meanly, both for 
the matter and handling, that no man can do worse. For therein 
the least learned, for the most part, have been always most ready 
to write. And they which had least hope in Latin have been 

*More. 

T. L.— 2. 



18 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

most bold in English; when surely every man that is most ready 
to talk is not most able to write. He that will write well in any 
tongue, must follow this counsel of Aristotle, to speak as the 
common people do, to think as wise men do; as so should every 
man understand him, and the judgment of wise men allow him. 
Many English writers have not done so, but, using strange words, 
as Latin, French, and Italian, do make all things dark and hard. 
Once I communed with a man which reasoned the English tongue 
to be enriched and increased thereby, saying, "Who will not 
praise that feast where a man shall drink at a dinner both wine, 
ale, and beer?" "Truly (quoth I) they be all good, every one 
taken by himself alone, but if you put malmsey and sack, red 
wine and white, ale and beer, and all in one pot, you shall make 
,a drink neither easy to be known, nor yet wholesome for the 
body." 

Extracts from the " Scholemaster." 

I.— INTEEMIXTUBE OF STUDY AND EXERCISE. 

I would wish, that beside some good time, fitly appointed, and 
constantly kept, to increase by reading the knowledge of the 
tongues, and learning, young gentlemen should use, and delight 
in all courtly exercises and gentlemanlike pastimes. And good 
cause why; for the self-same noble city of Athens, justly com- 
mended of me before, did wisely, and upon great consideration, 
appoint the muses, Apollo and Pallas, to be patrons of learning 
to their youth. For the muses, besides learning, were also ladies 
of dancing, mirth and minstrelsy; Apollo was god of shooting, 
and author of cunning playing upon instruments; Pallas also 
was lady mistress in wars. Whereby was nothing else meant, but 
that learning should be always mingled with honest mirth and 
comely exercises; and that war also should be governed by 
learning and moderated by wisdom ; as did well appear in those 
captains of Athens named by me before, and also in Scipio and 
Caesar, the two diamonds of Rome. And Pallas was no more 
feared in wearing ^gida, than she was praised for choosing 



ROGER ASCHAM. 19 

Olivani; whereby shineth the glory of learning, which thus was 
governor and mistress, in the noble city of Athens, both of war 
and peace. 

II.— THE CONSEQUENCES OF NEGLECTED EDUCATION. 

It is pity that, commonly, more care is had, yea, and that 
among very wise men, to find out rather a cunning man for 
their horse, than a cunning man for their children. They say 
nay in word, but they do so in deed. For to the one they will 
gladly give a stipend of two hundred crowns by year, and loath 
to offer to the other two hundred shillings. God, that sitteth in 
heaven, laugheth their choice to scorn, and rewardeth their 
liberality as it should; for he suffereth them to have tame and 
well-ordered horse, but wild and unfortunate children ; and, 
therefore, in the end, they find more pleasure in their horse than 
comfort in their children. 

III.— DANGERS OF FOREIGN TRAVEL. 

I know divers noble personages, and many worthy gentlemen 
of England, whom all the siren songs of Italy could never untwine 
from the mast of God's word; nor no enchantment of vanity 
overturn them from the fear of God and love of honesty. 

But I know as many, or mo, and some, sometime my dear 
friends (for whose sake I hate ^'oing into that country the more), 
who, parting out of England fervent in the love of Christ's doc- 
trine, and well furnished with the fear of God, returned out of 
Italy worse transformed than ever was an^^ in Circe's* court. I 
know clivers, that went out of England men of innocent life, men 
of excellent learning, who returned out of Italy, not only with 
worse manners, but also with less learning; neither so willing to 
live orderly, nor yet so able to speak learnedly, as they were at 
home, before they went abroad. . . . 

But I am afraid that over many of our travelers into Italy do 
not eschew the way to Circe's court, but go, and ride, and run, 

* A mythological enchantress, who first charmed her victims and then trans- 
formed them into beasts. 



20 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and fly thither; they make great haste to come to her; they 
make great suit to serve her ; yea, I could point out some with 
my finger, that never had gone out of England, but only to serve 
Circe in Italy. ... If you think we judge amiss, and write too 
sore against you, hear what the Italian saith of the Englishman; 
what the master reporteth of the scholar, who uttereth plainly 
what is taught by him, and what is learned by you, saying 
Inglese Italianato, e un diaholo mcamato : that is to say, "you 
remain men in shape and fashion, but become devils in life and 
condition." 



JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE. 

1622-1672. 

Jean-Baptiste Poquelix — the family name of this d i stir o'lii shed 
playwright— was born in Paris in 1622. At a very early age he evinced a 
remarkable interest in the stage and, although intended by his parents 
for the legal profession, and for a time a student of both law and philos- 
ophy (a fact indicated with sufficient clearness in several of his plays), 
his natural inclination ultimately shaped his career and he became suc- 
cessively actor, manager and author. For some undiscovered reason he 
assumed during this theatrical period, the stage name of Moliere, 
which was destined to become imperishable in literature. In all he wrote 
about thirty plays. The most successful of these productions are: 
*'The Misanthrope"' {Le Misanthrope), '' Learned Women'' (Les Femnies 
Savantes), "The Miser" (L'Avare), and "The Hypocrite" (Le Tartufe), 
which are regarded as models of high comedy. "The Shopkeeper turned 
Gentleman" {Le Bourgeois) is one of his most popular dramas. Mr, 
Charles Heron Wall, the translator of Moliere, says of this play: "Le 
Bourgeois Gentilhomme was acted before the king for the first time at 
Chambord, on October 1-1, 1670, and on November 23, at the Palais 
Eoyal. After the second representation. Louis XlV. said to Moliere: 
'You have never written anything which amused me more, and your 
play is excellent.' But it obtained a still greater success in Paris, where 
the bourgeois willingly and good-humoredly laughed at what they 
deemed their neighbors' weaknesses. The first three acts are the best; 
Louis XIV. hurried Moliere so with the last that they degenerated into 
burlesque. Moliere acted the part of Bourgeois. ^^ 

CHAEACTERIZATION. 

His private character was remarkable for gentleness, probity, gener- 
osity, and delicacy, qualities attested not only by anecdotes but hj the 
evidence of documents. He is probably the greatest of all comic writers 
within the limits of social and refined as distinguished from romantic 
comedy, like that of Shakespeare, and of political comed^^, like that of 
Aristophanes. He has the humor which is but the sense of the true 
value of life, and now takes the form of the most vivacious wit and the 
keenest observation, now of melancholy and pity, and wonder at the 
fortunes of mortal men. In the literature of France his is the greatest 
name, and in the literature of the modern drama the greatest after that 
of Shakespeare. Britannica. 

. (21) 



22 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Moliere is the most distinguished comic poet of modern times. While 
he is the complete embodiment of the spirit of his people, he yet rises, 
independent of all prejudices of nation and age, to the plane of the true 
great author. His bust, standing in the hall of the French Academy, 
bears the triumphant inscription : 

'^Rien ne manque a sa gloire; il manqiiait a la notre.^' (Nothing is 
lacking in his glory; he is lacking to ours.) Prof. A. H. Mixeb. 

Education of M. Jourdain. 

Scenes from "Le Bourgeois" — "The Shopkeeper turned Gentleman." 

Deamatis Persons. 

M. Jourdain, the Shopkeeper turned Gentleman. 

Professor of Philosophy. 

Dancing Master. 

Fencing Master. 

Music Master. 

Servants. 

Madame Jourdain. 

Nicole, a Female Servant. 

The scene is in Paris in the residence ofM. Jourdain. 
ACT II. 

SCENE III. — M. JOURDAIN, FENCING MASTER, MUSIC MASTER, 
DANCING MASTER, A SERVANT HOLDING TWO FOILS. 

Fen. Mas. ( Taking the t^yo foils from the hands of the 
servant, and giving one to M. Jourdain.) Now, sir, the salute. 
The body upright, resting slightly on the left thigh. The legs 
not so far apart ; the feet in a line. The wrist in a line with the 
thigh. The point of the foil opposite the shoulder. The arm not 
quite so much extended. The left hand as high as the ej'e. The 
left shoulder more squared. The head erect; the look firm. 
Advance, the body steady. Engage my blade in quart, and 
retain the engagement. One, two. As you were. Once more, 
with the foot firm. One, two; a step to the rear. When you 
make an attack, sir, the sword should move first, and the body 
be well held back. One, two. Engage my blade in tierce, and 
retain the engagement. Advance; the body steady. Advance; 



JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE. 23 

one, two. Recover. Once more. One, two. A step to the rear. 
On guard, sir; on guard. [The Fencing Master delivers two or 
three attacks, calling out, " On guard ! " ) 

M. Jour. Ah! 

Mus. Mas. You are doing wonders. 

Fen. Mas. As I have already told vou, the whole art of fenc- 
ing consists of one or two things — in giving and not receiving; 
and, as I showed you the other day by demonstrative reason, it 
is impossible for you to receive if you know how to turn aside 
your adversary's weapon from the line of your body; and this 
again depends only on a slight movement of the wrist to the 
inside or the out. 

M. Jour. So that a man, without having any courage, is sure 
of killing his man and of not being killed himself. 

Fen. Mas. Exactly. Did you not see plainly the demonstra- 
tion of it ? 

M. Jour. Yes. 

Fen. Mas. And this shows you of what importance we must 
be in a state; and how much the science of arms is superior to 
all the other useless sciences, such as dancing, music 

Dan. Mas. Gently, Mr. Fencing Master; speak of dancing 
with respect, if you please. 

Mus. Mas. Pray learn to treat more properly the excellence 
of music. 

Fen. Mas. Just see the man of importance! 

Dan. Mas. A fine animal, to be sure, with his plastron. 

Fen. Mas. Take care, my little dancing master, or I shall 
make you dance in fine style. And you, my little musician, I'll 
teach you to sing out. 

Dan. Mas. And you, my beater of iron, I'll teach you your 
trade. 

M. Jour. (To the Dancing Master.) Are you mad, to go and 
quarrel with a man who understands tierce and quart, and 
knows how to kill another by demonstrative reason? 

Dan. Mas. I don't care a straw for his demonstrative reason, 
and his tierce and quart. 



24 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

M. Jour. ( To the Dancing Master.) Gently, I tell you. 

Fen. Mas. [To the Dancing Master.) How, you little im- 
pudent fellow! 

M. Jour. Ah, my Fencing Master! 

Dan. Mas. (To the Fencing Master.) How, you great cart- 
horse! 

M. Jour. Stop, my Dancing Master ! 

Fen. Mas. If I once begin with you 

M. Jour. [To the Fencing Master.) Gently. 

Dan. Mas. If I lay my hand upon you 

M. Jour. Softly. 

Fen. Mas. I will beat you after such a fashion 

M. Jour. (To the Fencing Master.) For goodness sake! 
. Dan. Mas. I'll thrash you in such a style 

M. Jour. (To the Dancing Master.) I beg of you 



Mus. Mas. Let us teach him a little how to behave himself. 
AI. Jour. (To the Music Master.) Gracious heavens! Do 
stop. 

SCENE IV.— PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY, M. .JOURDAIN, MUSIC MAS- 
TER, DANCING MASTER, FENCING MASTER, A SERVANT. 

M. Jour. Oh ! you are in the very nick of time with your phi- 
losophy. Pray come here and restore peace among these people. 

Prof. Phil. Wha t is going on ? What is the matter, gentlemen ? 

M. Jour. They have got themselves into such a rage about 
the importance that ought to be attached to their different pro- 
fessions, that they have almost come to blows over it. 

Prof. Phil. For shame, gentlemen ; how can you thus forget 
yourselves ? Have you not read the learned treatise which Seneca 
composed on anger? Is there anything more base and more 
shameful than the passion which changes a man into a savage 
beast, and ought not reason to govern all our actions? 

Dan. Mas. How, sir! He comes and insults us both in our 
professions; he despises dancing, which I teach, and music, which 
is his occupation (pointing to Music Master). 

Prof. Phil. A wise man is above all the insults that can be 



JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELLX MOLIERE. 25 

offered him ; and the best and noblest answer one can make to 
al] kinds of provocation is moderation and patience. 

Fen. Mas. They have both the impertinence to compare their 
professions to mine ! 

Prof. Phil. Why should this offend you? It is not for vain- 
glory and rank that men should strive among themselves. What 
distinguishes one man from another is wisdom and virtue. 

Dan. Mas. I maintain that dancing is a science which we can- 
not honor too much. 

Mus. Mas. And I that music is a science which all ages have 
revered. 

Fen. Mas. And I maintain against them both that the science 
of attack and defence is the best and most necessary of all 
sciences. 

Prof. Phil. And for what, then, do you count philosophy? I 
think youare all three very bold fellows, to dare to speak before me 
with this arrogance, and impudently to give the name of science 
to things which are not even to be honored with the name of art, 
but which can only be classed with the trades of prize-fighter, 
street-singer, and mountebank. 

Fen. Mas. Get out, 3^ou dog of a philosopher! 

Mus. Mas. Get along with you, you beggarly pedant! 

Dan. Mas. Begone, you empt^-headed college scout ! 

Prof. Phil. How, scoundrels that you are ! 

{^The Philosopher rushes upon them, and they all three belabor 
him.) 

M. Jour. Mr. Philosopher! 

Prof. Phil. Infamous villains! 

M. Jour. Mr. Philosopher ! 

Fen. Mas. Plague take the animal! 

M. Jour. Gentlemen ! 

Prof. Phil. Impudent cads ! 

M. Jour. Mr. Philosopher ! 

Dan. Mas. Deuce take the saddled donkey! 

M. Jour. Gentlemen ! 

Prof. Phil. Scoundrels ! 



26 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

M. Jour. Mr. Philosopher ! 
Mus. Mas. Perdition take the insolent fellow ! 
M. Jour. Gentlemen ! 

Prof. Phil. Knaves, beggars, wretches, impostors ! 
M. Jour. Mr. Philosopher! Gentlemen! Mr. Philosopher! 
Gentlemen! Mr. Philosopher! 

SCENE v.— M. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT. 

M. Jour. Well ! fight as much as you like, I can't help it ; but 
don't expect me to go and spoil my dressing-gown to separate 
you. I should be a fool indeed to trust myself among them, and 
receive some blow or other that might hurt me. 

SCENE VI.— PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY, M. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT. 

Prof. Phil. (Setting his collar in order.) Now for our lesson. 

M. Jour. Ah,^sir, how sorry I am for the blows they have 
given you ! 

Prof. Phil. It is of no consequence. A philosopher knows 
how to receive things calml}^, and I shall compose against 
them a satire, in the style of Juvenal, which will cut them up in 
proper fashion. Let us drop this subject. What do you wish 
to learn? 

M. Jour. Everything 1 can, for I have the greatest desire in 
the world to be learned; and it vexes me more than I can tell 
that my father and mother did not make me learn thoroughly 
all the sciences when I was young. 

Prof. Phil. This is a praiseworthy feeling. A'a/n sine doctrinn 
vita est quasi mortis imago. You understand this, and you 
have, no doubt, a knowledge of Latin? 

M. Jour. Yes; but act as if I had none. Explain to me the 
meaning of it. 

Prof. Phil. The meaning of it is this, that without science lif<' 
is an image of death. 

M. Jour. That Latin is quite right. 

Prof Phil. Have you any principles, any rudiments of 
science ? 



JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE. 27 

M. Jour. Oh, yes; I can read and write. 

Prof. Phil. With what would you like to begin ? Shall I teach 
you logic? 

M. Jour. And what may this logic be? 

Prof. Phil. It is that which teaches us the three operations of 
the mind. 

M. Jour. What are they, those three operations of the mind ? 

Prof. Phil. The first, the second, and the third. The first is 
to conceive well by means of universals; the second, to judge 
well by means of categories; and the third, to draw a conclusion 
aright by means of the figures Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Bara- 
lipton, etc. 

M. Jour. Pooh ! what repulsive words. This logic does not 
by any means suit me. Teach me something more enlivening. 

Prof. Phil. Will you learn moral philosophy? 

M. Jour. Moral philosophy? 

Prof Phil. Yes. 

M. Jour. What does it say, this moral philosophy? 

Prof. Phil. It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate 
their passions, and 

M. Jour. No, none of that. I am Infernalh^ hot-tempered, and, 
morality or no morality, I like to give full vent to my anger 
whenever I have a mind to it. 

Prof Phil. Would you like to learn physics? 

M. Jour. And what have physics to say for themselves ? 

Prof. Phil. Physics are that science which explains the prin- 
ciples of natural things and the properties of bodies, which dis- 
courses of the nature of the elements of metals, minerals, stones, 
plants and animals; which teaches us the cause of all the meteors, 
the rainbow, the ignis fatuus, comets, lightning, thunder, thun- 
derbolts, rain, snow, hail, wind, and whirlwinds. 

M. Jour. There is too much hullaballoo in all that; too much 
riot and rumpus. 

Prof Phil. What would you have me teach you, then? 

M. Jour. Teach me spelling. 

Prof. Phil. Very good. 



28 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

M. Jour. Afterward you will teach me the almanac, so that I 
may know when there is a moon, and when there isn't one. 

Prof. PhiL Be it so. In order to give a right interpretation 
of your thought, and to treat this matter philosophically-, we 
must begin, according to the order of things, with an exact 
knowledge of the nature of the letters, and the different way in 
which" each is pronounced. And on this head, I must tell you 
that letters are divided into vowels, so called because they 
express the voice, and into consonants, so called because they 
are sounded with the vowels, and only mark the different articu- 
lations of the voice. There are five vowels," or voices, a, e, i, o, u. 

M. Jour. I understand all that. 

Prof. Phil. The vowel a is formed by opening the mouth 
wide; a. 

M. Jour. A, a; yes. 

Prof PhiL The vowel e is formed by drawing the lower jaw a 
little nearer to the upper; a, e. 

M. Jour. A, e; a, e; to be sure. Ah! how beautiful that is! 

Prof. Phil. And the vowel i by bringing the jaws still closer to 
one another, and stretching the two corners of the mouth toward 
the ears ; a, e, i. 

M. Jour. A, e, i, i, i, i. Quite true. Long live science! 

Prof. Phil. The vowel o is formed by opening the jaws and 
drawing in the lips at the two corners, the upper and the lower; o. 

M. Jour. O, o. Nothing can be more correct ; a, e, i, o, i, o. 
It is admirable! /, o, i, o. 

Prof Phil. The opening of the mouth exactly makes a little 
circle, which resembles an o. 

M. Jour. 0, o, o. Your are right. O ! Ah, what a fine thing 
it is to know something! 

Prof Phil. The vowel u is formed by bringing the teeth near 
each other without entirely joining them, and thrusting out both 
the lips, whilst also bringing them near together without joining 
them; u. 



* This refers to the French vowels, and is not applicable to the English sounds 
of the letters. 



JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE. 29 

M. Jour. U, u. There is nothing more true; u. 

Prof. Phil. Your two lips lengthen as if you were pouting; so 
that, if you wish to make a grimace at anybody, and to laugh at 
him, jou have only to u him. 

M. Jour. U, u. It's true. Oh, that I had studied when I was 
younger, so as to know all this ! 

Prof. Phil. To-morrow we will speak of the other letters, 
which are the consonants. 

M. Jour. Is there anything as curious in them as in these .^ 

Prof. Phil. Certainly. For instance, the consonant d is pro- 
nounced by striking the tip of the tongue above the upper teeth ; 
da. 

M. Jour. Da, da. Yes. Ah, what beautiful things, what 
beautiful things! 

Prof. Phil. The /, by pressing the upper teeth upon the lower 
lip ; fa. 

M. Jour. Fa, fa. 'Tis the truth.- Ah, my father and my 
mother, how angry I feel with you. 

Prof Phil. And the r by carrying the tip of the tongue up to 
the roof of the palate, so that, being grazed by the air which 
comes out by force, it yields to it, and, returning to the same 
place, causes a sort of a tremor; r, ra. 

M. Jour. R-r-ra; r-r-r-r-r-ra. That's true. Ah, what a clever 
man you are, and what time I have lost! R-r-ra. 

Prof. Phil. I will fully explain all these curiosities to you. 

M. Jour. Pray do. And now I want to entrust you with a 
great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality, and I should be 
glad if you will help me to write something to her in a short 
letter which I mean to drop at her feet. 

Prof. Phil. Very well. 

M. Jour. That will be gallant; will it not? 

Prof Phil. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her ? 

M. Jour. Oh, no ; not verse. 

Prof. Phil. You only wish for prose ? 

M. Jour. No. I wish for neither verse nor prose. 

Prof. Phil. It must be one or the other. 



30 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

M. Jour. Why? 

Prof. Phil. Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can 
express ourselves, except prose or verse. 

M. Jour. There is nothing but prose or verse ? 

Prof. Phil. No, sir. Whatever is not prose is verse; and 
w^hatever is not verse is prose. 

M. Jour. And when we speak, what is that, then? 

Prof. Phil. Prose. 

AI. Jour. What! When I say, "Nicole, bring me my slij^pers, 
and give me my night-cap," is that prose? 

Prof Phil. Yes, sir. 

M. Jour. Upon my word, I've been speaking prose these forty 
years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest 
-obligation to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to 
write to her in a letter. Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes 
make me die of lore; but I would have this worded in a genteel 
manner, and turned prettily. 

Prof. Phil. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your 
heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her tor- 
tures 

M'. Jour. No, no, no; I don't want any of that. I simply 
wish for what I tell you. Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes 
make me die of love. 

Prof Phil. Still, you might amplify the thing a little. 

M. Jour. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but those words 
in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and 
arranged as they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I 
may see the different ways in which they may be put. 

Prof Phil. They may be put first of all, as you have said. 
Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of lore; or 
else. Of lore die make me, fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes; 
or. Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair Marchioness, die; 
or. Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair Marchioness, make me; 
or else. Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair Marchioness, 
of love. 

M. Jour. But of all these wavs which is the best? 



JEAX-BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIEKE. 31 

Prof. Phil. The one you said. Fair Marchioness, your beauti- 
ful eyes make me die of love. 

M. Jour. Yet I have never studied, and I did all that right off 
at the first shot. I thank 3^ou with all my heart, and I beg of 
you to come to-morrow morning early. 

Prof Phil. I shall not fail. 

ACT III. 

SCENE I.— M. JOURDAIN, TATO LACKEYS. 

M. Jour. Follow me, that I may go and show my clothes 
about the town; and be very careful, both of you, to walk close 
to my heels, so that people may see that you belong to me. 

Lack. Yes, sir. 

M. Jour. Just call Nicole. I have some orders to give her. 
Y'^ou need not move; here she comes. 

SCENE n.— M. JOURDAIN, NICOLE, TWO LACKEYS. 

M. Jour. Nicole! 

Nic. What is it, sir? 

M. Jour. Listen. 

Nic. [Laughing.) Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi! 

M. Jour. What are you laughing at ? 

Nic. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi, hi! 

M. Jour. What does the hussy mean ? 

Nic. Hi, hi, hi! What a figure you cut ! Hi, hi, hi! 

M.Jour, Eh? What? 

Nic. Ah, ah! My goodness! Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi! 

M. Jour. What an impertinent jade ! Are you laughing at 
me? 

Nic. Oh, no, sir! I should be very sorry to do so. Hi, hi, hi, 
hi, hi ! 

M. Jour. I'll slap your face if you laugh again. 

Nic. I can't help it, sir. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi, hi! 

M. Jour. Will you leave off? 

Nic. Sir; I beg your pardon, sir; but you are so very comical 
that I can't help laughing. Hi, hi, hi, hi! 



32 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

M. Jour. Did jou ever see such impudence? 

Nic. You are so odd, like that. Hi, hi! 

M. Jour. I'll 

Nic. I beg of you to excuse me. Hi, hi, hi, hi! 

M. Jour. Look here; if you laugh again, ever so little, I swear 
I will give you a box on the ears such as you never had before in 
your -life. 

Nic. Well, sir, I have done. I won't laugh any more. 

M. Jour. Mind you don't. You must for this afternoon 
clean 

Nic. Hi, hi! 

M. Jour. You must clean thoroughly 

Nic. Hi, hi! 

M. Jour. You must, I say, clean the drawing-room, and 

Nic. Hi, hi! 

M. Jour. Again? 

Nic. [Tumbling down with laughing.) There, sir, beat me 
rather, but let me laugh to my heart's content. I am sure it will 
be better for me. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi ! 

M. Jour. I am boiling with rage. 

Nic. For pity's sake let me laugh. Hi, hi, hi ! 

M. Jour. If I begin ' 

Nic. Si-r-r, I shall bur-r-st if 1 d-don't laugh. Hi, hi, hi ! 

M. Jour. But did you ever see such a hussy? She comes and 
laughs at me to my face, instead of tending to my orders. 

Nic. What is it you wish me to do, sir? 

M. Jour. I want jou to get this house ready for the company 
which is to come here by and by. 

Nic. {Getting up.) Ah, well! All my wish to laugh is gone 
now; your company brings such disorder here that what you 
say is quite sufficient to put me out of temper. 

M. Jour. I suppose that, to please you, I ought to shut my 
door against everybody? 

Nic. You would do well to shut it against certain people, 
sir. 



JEAX-BAPTJSTE POQUELIX MOLIERE. 33 

SCENE III.— MME. JOURDAIN, M. JOrRDAIN, NICOLE, TWO SERVANTS. 

Mine. Jour. Ah, me ! Here is some new vexation ! Why, hus- 
band, what do you possibly mean by this strange get-up? Have 
you lost your senses, that you go and deck yourself out like this, 
and do you wish to be the laughing-stock of everybody, wherever 
you go ? 

M. Jour. Let me tell you, my good wife, that no one but a 
fool will laugh at me. 

Mme. Jour. No one has waited until to-day for that ; and it is 
now some time since your ways of going on have been the amuse- 
ment of everybody. 

M. Jour. And who may everybody be, please? 

Mme. Jour. Everybody is a body who is in the right, and who 
has more sense than you. For ray part, I am quite shocked at 
the life you lead. I don't know our home again. One would 
think, by what goes on that it was one everlasting carnival 
here; and as soon as day breaks, for fear we should have any 
rest in it, we have a regular din of fiddles and singers, that are a 
positive nuisance to all the neighborhood. 

Nic. What mistress says is quite right. There is no longer 
any chance of having the house clean, with all that heap of peo- 
ple you bring in. Their feet seem to have gone purposely to pick 
up the mud in the four quarters of the town, in order to bring it 
here afterward ; and poor Fran^oise is almost off her legs with 
the constant scrubbing of the floors, which your masters come 
and dirty every day as regular as clockwork. 

M. Jour. I say, there, our servant Nicole, you have a pretty 
sharp tongue of your own for a country wench. 

Mme. Jour. Nicole is right, and she has more sense by far 
than you have. I should like to know, for instance, what do you 
mean to do with a dancing master at your age? 

Nic. And with that big fencing master who comes here stamp- 
ing enough to shake the whole house down, and to tear up the 
floor tiles of our rooms. 

M. Jour. Gently, my servant and my wife. 

T. L.— 3 



34 THE TEACHER IX LITERATURE. 

Mine. Jour. Do jou mean to learn dancing for the time when 
you can't stand on your legs an}^ longer? 

Nic. Do you intend to kill anybody ? 

M. Jour. Hold your tongues, I sa}^ You are only ignorant 
women, both of you, and understand nothing concerning the 
prerogative of all this. 

Alme. Jour. You would do much better to think of seeing 
your daughter married, for she is now of an age to be provided 
for. 

M. Jour. I shall think of seeing m^'' daughter married when a 
suitable match presents itself; but in the meantime, I wish to 
think of acquiring fine learning. 

Nic. I have heard say also, mistress, that, to go the whole 
hog, he has now taken a professor of philosophy. 

M. Jour. To be sure I have. I wish to be clever, and reason 
concerning things with people of quality. 

Mine. Jour. Had you not better go to school one of these 
days, and get the birch, at your age? 

M. Jour. Why not? Would to heaven I were flogged this 
very instant, before all the world, so that I might know all they 
learn at school. 

Nic. Yes, to be sure. That would much improve the shape of 
your leg. 

M. Jour. Of course. 

Mme. Jour. And all this is very necessary for the manage- 
ment of your house? 

M. Jour. Certainly. You both speak like donkeys, and I am 
ashamed of your ignorance. [To Mme. Jourdain.) Let me see, 
for instance, if you know what you are speaking this very 
moment. 

Mme. Jour. Yes, I know that what I speak is rightly spoken; 
and that you should think of leading a different life. 

M. Jour. I do not mean that. I ask you what the words are 
that you are now speaking. 

Mme. Jour. They are sensible words, I tell you, and that is 
more than vour conduct is. 



JEAN-BAPTISTE POQVELIN MOLIERE. 35 

M. Jour. I am not speaking of that. I ask you what it is that 
I am now saying to you. That which I am now speaking to you, 
what is it? 

Mme. Jour. Rubbish. 

M. Jour. No, no ! T don't mean that. What we both speak ; 
the language we are speaking this very moment. 

Mme. Jour. Well? 

M. Jour. How is it called? 

Mme. Jour. It is called whatever you like to call it. 

M. Jour. It is PKOSE, you ignorant woman! 

Mme. Jour. Prose? 

M. Jour. Whatever is prose is not verse, and whatever is not 
verse is prose. There! you see w^hat it is to study. [To Nicole.) 
And you, do you even know what you must do to say u? 

Nic. Eh? What? 

M. Jour. Yes. What do you do when you say u? 

Nic. AVhatldo? 

M. Jour. Say u a little, to try. 

Nic. Well, u. ■ ^ _ ■ , 

M. Jour. What is it you do? 

Nic. I say u. 

M. Jour. Yes ; but when you say u, what is it you do? 

Nic. I do what you ask me to do. 

M. Jour. Oh, what a strange thing it is to have to do with 
dunces ! You pout your lips outwards, and bring your upper jaw 
near your lower jaw like this, u; I make a face; u. Do you see? 

Nic. Yes, that's beautiful. 

Mme. Jour. It's admirable. 

M. Jour. What would you say then if you had seen o, and 
da, da, and fa, fa? 

Mme. Jour. What is all this absurd stuff? 

Nic. And what are we the better for all this? 

M. Jour. I have no patience with such ignorant women. 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 

1712-1778. 

Jean Jacques Rousskau was born at Geneva, Switzerland, in 1712, 
and died near Paris in 1778. The annals of literature show no stranger 
mixture of the best and the worst, the strength and the weakness of 
human nature than the subject of this sketch. Motherless in his infa.ncy, 
with a weak and vacillating father who deserted him at ten, this child of 
fate, with all his idiosyncrasies, attained a place in the temple of fame 
scarcely equaled by any other of his generation. After the separation 
from his father, he was taken in charge by his maternal relatives, who 
undertook his education, but at the age of sixteen he ran away, and from 
that time during the remaining fifty years of his exceptional career his 
life seems to have been one of varying trials and tribulations, of peculiar 
pleasures and disappointments, and of surprising successes and reverses. 

He married Therese le Vasseur, a servant at the inn at which he then 
lived, a woman with little beauty, no education or understanding and 
few charms of any kind that his frjends could discover, but to whom he 
showed a wonderful attachment which lasted through life. The five chil- 
dren who were born to them were consigned to a foundling hospital. This 
disregard of responsibility was partly punished by the use his critics made 
of it when he became celebrated as a writer on education and a preacher 
on the domestic affections. 

His principal works are ''The New Heloise," "A Social Contract," and 
"Emile," the latter more of a treatise than a novel, and which had a 
helpful influence on society in France, and added importance to the duties 
of teaching. It also rendered appreciable service to the cause of educa- 
tion in England and Germany. Indeed the "Emile" of Rousseau was 
the point of departure for awakened interest in educational theories 
which has continued up to the present time. 

characterization. 

In education, as in politics, no school of thinkers has succeeded or can 
succeed in engrossing ail truth to itself. No party, no individual even, 
can take up a central position between the conservatives and radicals, 
and, judging everything on its own merits, trj^ to preserve that only 
which is worth preserving, and to destroy just that which is worth 
destroying. Nor do we find that judicial minds often exercise the great- 
(36) 



. JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 37 

est influence in these matters. The only force which can overcome the 
vis iDertige^ of use and wont is enthusiasm, and this, springing from the 
discovery of new truths and hatred of old abuses, can hardly exist with 
due respect for truth that has become commonplace, and usage which is 
easily confounded with corruptions that disfigure it. So advances are 
made somewhat after this manner: the reformer, urged on by his enthusi- 
asm, attacks use and wont with more spirit than discretion ; those who 
are wedded to things as they are, try to draw attention from the weak 
points of their system to the mistakes or extravagances of the reformer. 
In the end, both sides are benefited by the encounter; and when their 
successors carry on the contest, they differ as much from those whose 
causes they espouse as from each other. 

In this way we have already made great progress. Compare, for 
instance, our present teaching of grammar with the ancient method, 
and our short and broken school time with the old plan of keeping boys 
in for five consecutive hours twice a day. Our conservatives and reform- 
ers are not so much at variance as their predecessors. To convince our- 
selves of this we have only to consider the state of parties in the second 
half of the last century. On the one side, we find the schoolmasters who 
turned out the courtiers of Louis XV. ; on the other, the most extrava- 
gant, the most eloquent, the most reckless of innovators — J. J. Rousseau. 

Rousseau has told us that he resolved on having fixed principles by 
the time he was forty years old. Among the j)rinciples of which he 
accordingly laid in a- stock, were these : 1st, Man, as he might be, is per- 
fectly good; 2d, Man, as he is, is utterly bad. To maintain these opin- 
ions, Rousseau undertook to show not only the rotten state of the 
existing society, which he did with notable success, but also the proper 
method of rearing children so as to make them all that they ought to be 
— an attempt at construction vvhicli was far more difficult and hazardous 
than his philippics. 

This was the origin of the "Emile," perhaps the most influential book 
ever written on the subject of education. R. H. Quick. 



Quick's Adaptation of " Emile" 

The school to which Rousseau belonged may be said, indeed, 
to have been founded by Montaigne, and to have met with a 
champion, though not a very enthusiastic champion, in Locke. 
But it was reserved for Rousseau to give this theory of educa- 
tion its complete development, and to expound it in the clearest 

* Inertia. 



38 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and most eloquent language. In the form in which Rousseau 
left it the theory greatly influenced Basedow and Pestalozzi, 
and still influences many educational reformers who differ from 
Rousseau as much as our schoolmasters differ from those of 
Louis XV. 

Of course, as man was corrupted by ordinary education, the 
ideal education must differ from it in every respect. "Take the 
road directly opposite to that which is in use, and you will 
almost always do right." This was the fundamental maxim. 
So thorough a radical was Rousseau, that he scorned the idea 
of half measures. "I had rather follow the established practice 
entirely," says he, "than adopt a good one by halves." 

In the society of that time everything was artificial ; Rousseau 
therefore demanded a return to nature. Parents should do 
their duty in rearing their own offspring. " AVhere there is no 
mother, there can be no child." The father should find time 
to bring up the child whom the mother has suckled. No duty 
can be more important than this. But although Rousseau 
seems conscious that family life is the natural state, he makes 
his model child an orphan, and hands him over to a governor, 
to be brought up in the country without companions. 

This governor is to devote himself, for some years, entirely to 
imparting to his pupil these difficult arts — the art of being 
ignorant and of losing time. Till he is twelve years old Emile 
is to have no direct instruction whatever. "At that age he 
shall not know what a book is," says Rousseau; though else- 
where we are told that he will learn to read of his own accord 
by the time he is ten, if no attempt is made to teach him. He is 
to be under no restraint, and is to do nothing but what he sees 
to be useful. 

Freedom from restraint is, however, to be apparent, not real. 
As in ordinary education the child employ's all his faculties in 
duping the master, so in education " according to nature," the 
master is to devote himself to duping the child. "Let him alwaj^s 
be his own master in appearance, and do you take care to be so 
in reality. Tlieie is no subjection so complete as that which 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 39 

preserves the appearance of liberty; it is by tbis means even the 
will itself is led captive." 

" The most critical interval of human nature is that between 
the hour of our birth and twelve years of age. This is the time 
wherein vice and error take root without our being possessed of 
.any instrument to destroy them." 

Throughout this season the governor is to be at work incul- 
cating the art of being ignorant and losing time. "This first 
part of education ought to be purely negative. It consists 
neither in teaching virtue nor truth, but in guarding the heart 
from vice, and the mind from error. If you could do nothing 
and let nothing be done; if \o\x could bring up your pupil 
healthy and robust to the age of twelve years, without his 
being able to distinguish his right hand from his left, the eyes 
of his understanding would be open to reason at your first les- 
son ; void both of habit and prejudice, he would have nothing 
in him to operate against your endeavors ; soon under your 
instructions, he would become the wisest of men. Thus, by 
setting out with doing nothing, jou would produce a prodigy 
of education." 

" Exercise his body, his senses, faculties, powers, but keep 
his mind inactive as long as possible. Distrust all the senti- 
ments he acquires previous to the judgment which should enable 
him to scrutinize them. Prevent or restrain all foreign impres- 
sions ; and in order to hinder the rise of evil, be not in too great 
a hurry to instill good; for it is only such when the mind is 
enlightened by reason. Look upon every delay as an advan- 
tage; it is gaining a great deal to advance without losing any- 
thing. Let childhood ripen in children. In short, whatever 
lesson becomes necessary for them, take care not to give them 
to-day, if it may be deferred without danger till to-morrow." 

"Do not, then, alarm yourself much about this apparent idle- 
ness. What would 3'ou say of the man who, in order to make the 
most of life, should determine never to go to sleep? You would 
say, the man is mad ; he is not enjoying the time ; he is depriving 
himself of it ; to avoid sleep he is hurrying toward death. Con- 



40 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

sider, then, that it is the same here, and that childhood is the 
sleep of reason." 

Such is the groundwork of Rousseau's educational scheme. 
His ideal boy of twelve years old is to be a thoroughly well- 
developed animal, with every bodily sense trained to its highest 
perfection. " His ideas," says Rousseau, " are confined, but clear; 
he knows nothing by rote, but a great deal by experience. If he 
reads less well than another child in our books, he reads better in 
the book of nature. His understanding does not lie in his tongue, 
but in his brain; he has less memory than judgment; he can 
speak only one language, but then he understands what he says ; 
and, although he may not talk of things so well as others, he will 
do them much better. He knows nothing at all of custom, fash- 
'ion, or habit; what he did yesterday has no influence on what 
he is to do to-day; he follows no formula, is influenced by no 
authority or example, but acts and speaks just as it suits him. 
Do not, then, expect from him set discourses or studied manners, 
but always the faithful expression of his ideas, and the conduct 
which springs naturally from his inclinations." 

This model child looks upon all men as equal, and will ask 
assistance from a king as readily as from a foot-boy. He does 
not understand what a command is, but will readily do anything 
for another person, in order to place that person under an obli- 
gation, and so increase his own rights. He knows, also, no dis- 
tinction between work and play. As a climax to this list of 
wonders, I may add that his imagination has remained inactive, 
and he only sees what is true in reality. 

The reader will probably have concluded by this time, that no 
child can possibly be so educated as to resemble Emile, and, per- 
haps, further, that no wise father would so educate his son, if it 
were possible. A child who does not understand what a com- 
mand is, and who can be induced to do anything for another 
only by the prospect of laying that person under an obligation ; 
who has no habits, and is guided merely by his inclinations — 
such a child as this is, fortunately, nothing but a dream of 
Rousseau's. 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 41 

But fantastical as Rousseau often is, the reader of his " Emile" 
is struck again and again, not more by the charm of his language 
than by his insight into child-nature, and the wisdom of his re- 
marks upon it. The "Emile" is a large work, and the latter 
part is interesting rather from a literary and philosophical point 
of view, than as it is connected with education. I purpose, there- 
fore, confining my attention to the earlier portion of the book, 
and giving some of the passages, of which a great deal since said 
and written on education has been a comparatively insipid 
decoction. 

"All things are good as their Creator made them, but every- 
thing degenerates in the hands of man." These are the first 
words of the "Emile," and the keynote of Rousseau's philosophy. 
" We are born weak, we have need of strength, we are born desti- 
tute of everything, we have need of assistance ; we are born stupid, 
we have need of understanding. All that we are not possessed of 
at our birth, and which we require when grown up, is bestowed 
on us by education. 

"This education we receive from nature, from men, or from 
things. The internal development of our organs and faculties is 
the education of nature; the use w^e are taught to make of that 
development is the education given us by men; and in the acquisi- 
tions made by our own experience on the objects that surround 
us, consists our education from things." " Since the concurrence 
of these three kinds of education is necessary to their perfection, it 
is by that one which is entirely independent of us we must regulate 
the two others." " To live is not merely to breathe ; it is to act, 
it is to make use of our organs, our senses, our faculties, and all 
those parts of ourselves which give us the feeling of our exist- 
ence. The man who has lived most, is not he who has counted 
the greatest number of years, but he who has most thoroughly 
felt life." 

The aim of education, then, must be complete living. But 
ordinary education (and here for a moment I am expressing my 
own conviction, and not simply reporting Rousseau), instead of 
seeking to develop the life of the child, sacrifices childhood to the 



42 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

acquirement of knowledge, or rather the semblance of knowledge, 
which it is thought will prove useful to the youth, or the man. 
Rousseau's great merit lies in his having exposed this fundamen- 
tal error. He saj^s, very truly: 

" People do not understand childhood. With the false notions 
we have of it, the further we go the more we blunder. The wisest 
apply- themselves to what ifc is important to 773^72 to know, with- 
out considering what children are in a condition to learn. They 
are always seeking the man in the child, without reflecting what 
he is before he can be a man. This is the study to which I have 
applied myself most; so that, should my practical scheme be 
found useless and chimerical, my observation will always turn to 
account. I may possibly have taken a very bad view of what 
ought to be done, but I conceive I have taken a good one of the 
subject to be wrought upon. Begin, then, by studying your 
pupils better; for most assuredly you do not at present under- 
stand them. So, if you read my book with that view, I do not 
think it will be useless to you." 

"Nature requires children to be children before they are men. 
If we will pervert this order, we shall produce f(jrward fruits, hav- 
ing neither ripeness nor taste, and sure soon to become rotten ; 
we shall have young professors and old children. Childhood has 
its manner of seeing, perceiving, and thinking, peculiar to itself; 
nothing is more absurd than our being anxious to substitute our 
own in its stead." 

" We never know how to put ourselves in the place of children ; 
we do not enter into their ideas, we lend them our own; and fol- 
lowing always our own train of thought, we fill their heads, even 
while we are discussing incontestable truths, with extravagance 
and error." "I wish some judicious hand would give us a trea- 
tise on the art of studying children; an art of the greatest impor- 
tance to understand, though fathers and preceptors know not as 
yet even the elements of it." 

The governor, then, must be able to sympathize with his 
pupil, and, on this account, Rousseau requires that he should be 
young. 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 43 

''The governor of a child should be young, even as young as 
possible, consistent with his having attained necessary discretion 
and sagacity. I would have him be himself a child, that he might 
become the companion of his pupil, and gain his confidence by 
partaking of his amusements. There are not things enough in 
common between childhood and manhood to form a solid attach- 
ment at so great a distance. Children sometimes caress old men, 
but they never love them." 

The governor's functions are threefold : Ist, that of keeping 
off hurtful influences— no light task in Rousseau's eyes, as he 
regarded almost every influence from the child's fellow-creatures 
as hurtful; 2d, that of developing the bodily powers, especially 
the senses; 3d, that of communicating the one science for chil- 
dren — moral behavior. In all these, even in the last, he must be 
governor rather than preceptor, for it is less his province to 
instruct than to conduct, he must not lay down precepts, but 
teach his pupils to discover them. "I preach a difficult art," 
says Rousseau, " the art of guiding without precepts, and of doing 
everything by doing nothing." 

The most distinctive characteristic of childhood is vitality. ' ' In 
the heart of the old man the failing energies concentrate them- 
selves: in that of the child they overflow and spread outward ; he 
is conscious of life enough to animate all that surrounds him; 
whether he makes or mars, it is all one to him; he is satisfied with 
having changed the state of things, and every change is an 
action." This vitality is to be allowed free scope. Swaddling- 
clothes are to be removed from infants; the restraints of school 
and book-learning, from children. Their love of action is to be 
freely indulged. 

The nearest approach to teaching which Rousseau permitted 
was that which became afterward, in the hands of Pestalozzi, 
the system of object lessons. "As soon as a child begins to dis- 
tinguish objects, a proper choice should be made in those which 
are presented to him." " He must learn to feel heat and cold, the 
hardness, softness, and weight of bodies; to judge of their mag- 
nitude, figure, and other sensible qualities, by looking, touching, 



44 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

hearing, and particularly by comparing the sight with the touch, 
and judging, by means of the eye, of the sensation acquired by 
the fingers." These exercises should be continued through child- 
hood. ''A child has neither the strength nor the judgment of a 
man; but he is capable of feeling and hearing as well, or at least 
nearly so. His palate also is as sensible, though less delicate; 
and he distinguishes odors as well, though not with the same 
nicety. Of all our faculties, the senses are perfected the first; 
these, therefore, are the first we should cultivate; they are, 
nevertheless, the only ones that are usually forgotten, or the 
most neglected." 

"Observe a cat the first time she comes into a room; she 
looks and smells about; she is not easy a moment; she distrusts 
.everything till everything is examined and known. In the same 
manner does a child examine into everything, when he begins to 
walk about, and enters, if I may so say, the apartment of the 
w^orkl. All the difference is, that the sight which is common to 
both the child and the cat, is in the first assisted by the feeling 
of the hands, and in the latter by the exquisite scent which 
nature has bestowed on it. It is the right or wrong cultivation 
of this inquisitive disposition that makes children either stupid 
or expert, sprightly or dull, sensible or foohsh. Since the pri- 
mary impulses of man urge him to compare his forces with those 
of the objects about him, and to discover the sensible qualities 
of such objects as far as the^^ relate to him, his first study is a 
sort of experimental philosophy relative to self-preservation, 
from which it is the custom to divert him b}- speculative studies 
before he has found his place on this earth. During the time 
that his supple and delicate organs can adjust themselves to the 
bodies on which they should act, while his senses are as yet 
exempt from illusions, this is the time to exercise both the one 
and the other in their proper functions; this is the time to learn 
the sensuous relations which things have with us. As every- 
thing that enters the human understanding is introduced by the 
senses, the first reason in mnn is a sensitive reason; and this 
serves as the basis of his intellectual reason. Our first instruct- 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 45 

ors in philosophy are our feet, hands, and eyes. Substituting 
books for all this is not teaching us to reason, but teaching us 
to use the reasoning of others ; it is teaching us to believe a great 
deal, and never to know anything." 

<'To exercise any art, we must begin by procuring the neces- 
sary implements ; and to employ those implements to any good 
purpose, they should be made sufficiently solid for their in- 
tended use. To learn to think, therefore, we should exercise our 
limbs, and our organs, which are the instruments of our intel- 
ligence; and in order to make the best use of those instruments, 
it is necessary that the body furnishing them should be robust 
and hearty. Thus, so far is a sound understanding from being 
independent of the body, that it is owing to a good constitution 
that the operations of the mind are effected with facility and 
certainty." 

'' To exercise the senses is not merely to make use of them; it 
is to learn rightly to judge by them ; to learn, if I may so express 
myself, to perceive; for we know how to touch, to see, to hear, 
only as we have learned. Some exercises are purely natural 
and mechanical, and serve to make the body strong and robust, 
without taking the least hold on the judgment; such are those 
of swimming, running, leaping, whipping a top, throwing stones, 
etc. All these are very well ; but have we only arms and legs ? 
Have we not also eyes and ears ; and are not these organs neces- 
sary to the expert use of the former? Exercise, therefore, not 
only the strength, but also all the senses that direct it; make the 
best possible use of each, and let the impressions of one confirm 
those of another. Measure, reckon, weigh, compare." Accord- 
ing to the present system, ''the lessons which school-boys learn 
of each other in playing about their bounds, are a hundred times 
more useful to them than all those which the master teaches in 
the school." 

He also suggests experiments in the dark, w^hich will both 
train the senses and get over the child's dread of darkness. 

Emile, living in the country and being much in the open air, 
will acquire a distinct and emphatic way of speaking. He will 



46 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

also avoid a fruitful source of bad pronuuciation among the chil- 
dren of the rich, viz., saying lessons by heart. These lessons the 
children gabble when they are learning them, and afterward, in 
their efforts to remember the words, they drawl, and give all kinds 
of false, emphasis. Declamation is to be shunned as acting. If 
Emile does not understand anything, he will be too wise to pre- 
tend to understand it. 

Rousseau seems perhaps inconsistent, in not excluding music 
and drawing from his curriculum of ignorance ; but as a musician, 
he naturally relaxed toward the former; and drawing he would 
have his pupil cultivate, not for the sake of the art itself, but only 
to give him a good eye and supple hand. He should, in all cases, 
draw from the objects themselves, '^'my intention being, not so 
much that he should know how to imitate the objects, as to 
become fully acquainted with them." 

The instruction given to ordinary school-boys was, of course, 
an abomination in the eyes of Rousseau. "All the studies imposed 
on these poor unfortunates tend to such objects as are entirely 
foreign to their minds. Judge, then, of the attention they are 
likely to bestow on them." "The pedagogues who make a great 
parade of the instructions they give their scholars, are paid to 
talk in a different strain : one may see plainly, however, by their 
conduct, that they are exactly of my opinion, for, after all, what 
is it they teach them ? Words, still words, and nothing but words. 
Among the various sciences' they pretend to teach, they take par- 
ticular care not to fall upon those which are really useful ; because 
there would be the sciences of things, and in them they would 
never succeed ; but they fix on such as appear to be understood 
when their terms are once gotten by rote, viz., geography, chron- 
ology, heraldry, the languages, etc., all studies so foreign to the 
purposes of man, and particularly to those of a child, that it is a 
wonder if ever he may have occasion for them as long as he lives." 
In any study whatever, unless we possess the ideas of the things 
represented, the signs representing them are of no use or conse- 
quence. A child is, nevertheless, always confined to these signs, 
without our being capable of making him comprehend any of 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 47 

the things which they represent. AYhat is the world to a child? 
It is a globe of pasteboard." 

"As no science consists in the knowledge of words, so there is 
no study proper for children. As they have no certain ideas, so 
they have no real memory ; for I do not call that so which is 
retentive only of mere sensations. What signifies imprinting on 
their minds a catalogue of signs which to them represent noth- 
ing? Is it to be feared that, in acquiring the knowledge of 
things, they will not acquire also that of signs? Why, then, 
shall we put them to the unnecessary trouble of learning them 
twice? And yet what dangerous prejudices do we not begin to 
instill, by making them take for knowledge words which to them 
are without meaning? 

" In the very first unintelligible sentence w^ith which a child sits 
dowm satisfied, in the very first thing he takes upon trust, or 
learns from others w^ithout being himself convinced of its utility, 
he loses part of his understanding; and he may figure long in the 
<^yes of fools before he will be able to repair so considerable a 
loss. No; if nature has given to the child's brain that pliability 
which renders it fit to receive all impressions, it is not with a 
view that w^e should imprint thereon the names of kings, dates, 
terms of heraldry, of astronomy, of geography, and all those 
words, meaningless at his age, and useless at any age, with 
which we weary his sad and sterile childhood; but that all the 
ideas which he can conceive, and which are useful to him, all 
those which relate to his happiness, and will one day make his 
duty plain to him, may trace themselves there in characters 
never to be effaced, and may assist him in conducting himself 
through life in a manner appropriate to his nature and his 
faculties." 

"That kind of memory which is possessed by children, may be 
fully employed without setting them to study books. Every- 
thing they see, or hear, appears striking, and they commit it to 
memory. A child keeps in his mind a register of the actions and 
conversation of those w^ho are about him; every scene he is 
engaged in is a book from which he insensibly enriches his mem- 



48 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ory, treasuring up his store till time shall ripen his judgment and 
turn it to profit. In the choice of these scenes and objects, in the 
care of presenting those constantly to his view which he ought to 
be familiar with, and in hiding from, him such as are improper, 
consists the true art of cultivating this primary faculty of a 
child. By such means, also, it is, that we should endeavor to 
form that magazine of knowledge which should serve for his edu- 
cation in youth, and to regulate his conduct afterward. This 
method, it is true, is not productive of little prodigies of learn- 
ing, nor does it tend to the glorification of the governess or 
preceptor; but it is the way to form robust and judicious men, 
persons sound in body and mind, who, without being admired 
while chilcfren, know how to make themselves respected when 
grown up." 

As for reading and writing, if you can induce a desire for them 
the child will be sure to learn them. "I am almost certain that 
Emile will know perfectly well how to read and write before he is 
ten years old, because I give myself very little trouble whether 
he learn it or not before he is fifteen; but I had much rather he 
should never learn to read at all, than to acquire that knowledge 
at the expense of everything that would render it useful to him ; 
and of what service will the power of reading be to him when he 
has renounced its use forever? " 

The following passage is perhaps familiar to Mr. Lowe: "If, 
proceeding on the plan I have begun to delineate, you follow 
rules directly contrary to those which are generally received ; 
if, instead of transporting your pupil's mind to what is remote; 
if, instead of making his thoughts wander unceasingly in 
other places, in other climates, in other centuries, to the ends 
of the earth, and to the very heavens, you apply 3'ourself to 
keeping him always at home and attentive to that which comes 
in immediate contact with him, 3'ou will then find him capable 
of perception, of memor^^ and even of reason: this is the order 
of nature. In proportion as the sensitive becomes an active 
being, he acquires a discernment proportional to his bodily 
powers; when he possesses more of the latter, also, than are 



JEAN fACQUES ROUSSEAU. 49 

necessary for his preservation, it is with that redundancy, and 
not before, that he displays those speculative faculties which are 
adapted to the employment of such abilities to other purposes. 
Are 3^ou desirous, therefore, to cultivate the understanding of 
your pupil? Cultivate those abilities on which it depends. 
Keep him in constant exercise of body ; bring him up robust 
and healthy, in order to make him reasonable and wise; let 
him work, let him run about, let him make a noise, in a word, 
let him be always active and in motion; let him be once a man 
in vigor, and he will soon be a man in understanding." 

Let us now examine what provision was made, in Rousseau's 
system, for teaching the one science for children, that of moral 
behavior [des devoirs de F homme) . His notions of this science 
were by no means those to which we are accustomed. As a 
believer in the goodness of human nature, he traced all folly, 
vanity and vice to ordinary education, and he would, therefore, 
depart as widely as possible from the usual course. "Examine 
the rules of the common method of education," he writes, ''and 
you will find them all wrong, particularly those which relate 
to virtue and manners." 

A simple alteration of method, however, would not suffice. 
Rousseau went further than this. He discarded all received 
notions of goodness, and set up one of his ow^n in their stead. 
"The only lesson of morality proper for children, and the most 
important to persons of all ages, is never to do an injury to any- 
one. Even the positive precept of doing good, if not made sub- 
ordinate to this, is dangerous, false and contradictory. Who is 
there that does not do good? All the world does good, the 
wicked man as w^ell as others; he makes one person happy at 
the expense of making a hundred miserable; hence arise all our 
calamities. The most sublime virtues are negative; they are 
also the most difiicult to put in practice, because they are 
attended with no ostentation, and are even above the pleasure, 
so sweet to the heart of man, of sending away others satisfied 
with our benevolence. how much good must that man neces- 
sarily do his fellow-creatures, if such a man there be, who never 

T. L.— 4 



50 THE TEACHER IN LITERAIURE. 

did any of them harm ! What intrepidity of 8oul, what con- 
stancy of mind are necessary here! It is not, however, by rea- 
soning on this maxim, but by endeavoring to put it in practice, 
that all its difficulty is to be discovered." 

''The precept of never doing another harm, implies that of 
having as little to do as possible with human society ; for in the 
social state the good of one man necessarily becomes the evil of 
another. This relation is essential to the thing itself, and cannot 
be changed. We may inquire, on this principle, which is best, 
man in a state of society or in a state of solitude? " '^A certain 
noble author has said, none but a wicked man might exist alone: 
for my part, I say, none but a good man might exist alone." 

This passage fully explains Rousseau's enthusiasm for Robin- 
son Crusoe, for he must have regarded him as the best and most 
beneficent of mortals. "Happy are the people among whom 
goodness requires no self-denial, and men may be just without 
virtue." And the fortunate solitary had one half of goodness 
ready made for him. " That which renders man essentially good 
is to have few wants, and seldom to compare himself with others; 
that which renders him essentially wicked is to have many wants, 
and to be frequently governed by opinion." Rousseau, however, 
did not vaunt the merits of negation with absolute consistency. 
Elsewhere he says, "He who waijts nothing will love nothing, 
and I cannot conceive that he who loves nothing can be happy." 

As Rousseau found the root of all evil in the action of man 
upon man, he sought to dissever his child of nature as much as 
possible from his fellow-creatures, and to assimilate him to Rob- 
inson Crusoe. Anything like rule and obedience was abomi- 
nation to Rousseau, and he confounds the wise rule of superior 
intelligence with the tyranny of mere caprice. He writes: "We 
always either do that which is pleasing to the child, or exact of 
him what pleases ourselves; either submitting to his humors or 
obliging him to submit to ours. There is no medium ; he must 
•either give orders or receive them. Hence the first ideas he 
acquires are those of absolute rule and servitude." The great 
panacea for all evils was, then, " liberty," by which Rousseau 



JEAN JACQUES EOUSSEAU. 51 

•understood independence. ''He only performs the actions of 
his own \Yill, who stands in no need of the assistance of others 
to put his designs in execution; and hence it follows that the 
greatest of all blessings is not authority, but liberty. A man 
truly free wills only that which he can do, and does only that 
which pleases him. This is my fundamental maxim. It need 
only be apphed to childhood, and all the rules of education 
will naturally flow from it." "Whosoever does what he will is 
happy, provided he is capable of doing it himself; this is the 
case with man in a state of nature." 

But a very obvious difficulty suggests itself. A child is neces- 
sarily the most dependent creature in the world. How, then, 
can he be brought up in w'hat Rousseau calls liberty? Rousseau 
sees this difficulty, and all he can say is, that as real liberty is 
impossible for a child, you must give him sham liberty instead. 
"Let him always be his own master in appearance, and do you 
take care to be so in reality. There is no subjection so complete 
as that w^hich preserves the appearance of liberty; it is by this 
means even the will itself is led captive. The poor child, who 
knows nothing, who is capable of nothing, is surely sufficiently 
at your mercy. Don't you dispose, with regard to him, of every- 
thing about him? Are not you capable of affecting him just as 
you please? His employment, his sports, his pleasures, his pains, 
are they not all in your power, without his knowing it? Assuredly, 
he ought not to be compelled to do anything contrary to his 
inclinations ; but then he ought not to be inclined to do anything 
contrary to yours; he ought not to take a step which you had 
not foreseen, nor open his lips to speak without your knowing 
what he is about to say. When you have once brought him 
under vsuch regulations, you may indulge him freely in all those 
corporeal exercises which his age requires, without running the 
hazard of blunting his intellects. You will then see, that instead 
of employing all his subtle arts to shake off a burdensome and 
disagreeable tyranny, he will be busied only in making the best 
use of everything about him. It is in this case you will have 
reason to be surprised at the subtilty of his invention, and the 



52 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ingenuity with which he makes everything that is in his power 
contribute to his gratification, without being obhged to prepos- 
session or opinion. In thus leaving him at liberty to follow his 
own will, you will not augment his caprice. By being accustomed 
only to do that which is proper for his state and condition he 
will soon do nothing but what he ought; and though he should 
be in continual motion of body, yet, while he is employed only in 
the pursuit of his present, and apparent interest, you will find his 
reasoning faculties display themselves better, and in a manner 
more peculiar to himself, than if he were engaged in studies of 
pure speculation." 

After this astonishing passage the reader will probaby con- 
sider Rousseau's opinions of moral behavior mere matters of 
'curiosity. Yet some of his advice is well worth considering. 

Although children should be made happy, they should by no 
means be shielded from every possible hurt. " The first thing we 
ought to learn, and that which it is of the greatest consequence 
for us to know, is to suffer. It seems as if children were formed 
little and feeble to learn this important lesson without danger." 
"Excessive severity, as well as excessive indulgence, should be 
equally avoided. If you leave children to suffer, you expose their 
health, endanger their lives, and make them actually miserable; 
on the other hand, if you are too anxious to prevent their being 
sensible of any kind of pain and inconvenience, j^ou only pave 
their way to feel much greater; you enervate their constitutions, 
make theni tender and effeminate; in a word, you remove them 
out of their situation as human beings, into which they must 
hereafter return in spite of all your solicitude." 

His advice on firmness is also good. " When the -child desires 
what is necessary, you ought to know and immediately comply 
with his request; but to be induced to do anything by his tears, 
is to encourage him to cry; it is to teach him to doubt your good- 
will, and to think you are influenced more by importunity than 
benevolence. Beware of this, for if your child once comes to 
imagine you are not of a good disposition, he will soon be of a 
bad one; if he once thinks you complain, he will soon grow 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 53 

obstinate. Yon should comply with his request immediately^ if 
you do not intend to refuse it. Mortify him not with frequent 
denials, but never revoke a refusal once made him." Caprice, 
whether of the governor or of the child, is carefully to be 
shunned. 

"There is an innate sense of right and wrong implanted in 
the human heart." In proof of this, he gives an anecdote of an 
infant who almost screamed to death on receiving a blow from 
the nurse. "I am very certain," he says, "had a burning coal 
fallen by accident on the hand of the child, it would have been 
less agitated than by this slight blow, given with a manifest 
intention to hurt it." 

For punishments he gives a hint which has been worked out 
by Mr. H. Spencer. " Oppose to his indiscreet desires only physi- 
cal obstacles, or the inconveniences naturally arising from the 
Rctions themselves ; these he will remember on a future occasion." 

Even in the matter of liberty, about which no one disagrees 
more heartily with Rousseau than I do, we may, I think, learn a 
lesson from him. " Emile acts from his own thoughts, and not 
from the dictation of others." " If jowy head always directs your 
pupil's hands, his own head will become useless to him." There 
is a great truth in this. While differing so far from Rousseau, 
that I should require the most implicit obedience from boys, I 
feel that we must give them a certain amount of independent 
action and freedom from restraint, as a means of education. In 
many of our private schools, a boy is hardly called upon to 
exercise his will all day long. He rises in the morning when he 
must; at meals, he eats till he is obliged to stop; he is taken 
out for exercise like a horse; he has all his indoor work prescribed 
for him, both as to time and quantity. 

Thus a boy grows up without having any occasion to think or 
act for himself. He is therefore without self-reliance. So much 
care is taken to prevent his doing wrong, that he gets to think 
only of checks from without. He is therefore incapable of self- 
restraint. Our public schools give more " liberty" and turn out 
better men. 



54 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

We will now suppose the child to have reached the age of twelve, 
a proficient in ignorance. His education must at this period alter 
entirely. The age for learning has arrived. "Give me.a child 
of twelve years of age, who knows nothing at all, and at fifteen 
I will return him to you as learned as any that you may have 
instructed earlier; with this difference, that the knowledge of 
yours will be only in his memory, and that of mine will be in his 
judgment." "To what use is it proper a child should put that 
redundancy of abilities, of which he is at present possessed, and 
which will fail him at another age? He should employ it on those 
things which may be of utility in time to come. He should throw, 
if I may so express myself, the superfluity of his present being into 
the future. The robust child should provide for the subsistence 
of the feeble man; not in laying up his treasure in coffers whence 
thieves may steal, nor by intrusting it to the hands of others; 
but by keeping it in his own. To appropriate his acquisitions to 
himself he will secure them in the strength and dexterity of his 
own arms, and in the capacity of his own head. This, therefore, 
is the time for employment, for instruction, for study. Observe, 
also, that I have not arbitrarily fixed on this period for that 
purpose; nature itself plainly points it out to us." 

The education of Emile was to be, to use the language of the 
present day, scientific, not literary. Rousseau professed a hatred 
of books, which he said kept the student so long engaged upon 
the thoughts of other people as to have no time to make a store 
of his own. " The abuse of reading is destructive to knowledge. 
Imagining ourselves to know everything we read, we conceive it 
unnecessary to learn it by other means. Too much reading, 
however, serves only to make us presumptions blockheads. Of all 
the ages in which literature has flourished, reading was never so 
universal as in the present, nor were men in general ever so 
ignorant." 

Even science was to be studied, not so much with a view to 
knowledge as to intellectual vigor. "You will remember it is 
my constant maxim, not to teach the boy a multiplicity of 
things, but to prevent his acquiring any but clear and precise 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 55 

ideas. His knowing nothing does not much concern me, pro- 
vided he does not deceive himself." 

Again he says: "Emile has but little knowledge; but what 
he has is truly his own; he knows nothing by halves. Among 
the few things he knows, and knows well, the most important is, 
that there are many things which he is now ignorant of, and 
which he may one day know; that there are many more which 
some men know and he never will; and that there is an infinity 
of others which neither he nor anybody else will ever know. He 
possesses a universal capacity, not in point of actual knowledge, 
but in the faculty of acquiring it; an open, intelligent genius, 
adapted to everything, and, as Montaigne says, if not instructed, 
capable of receiving instruction. It is sufficient for me that 
he knows how to discover the utility of his actions, and the 
reason for his opinions. Once again, I say, my object is not 
to furnish his mind with knowledge, but to teach him the 
method of acquiring it when he has occasion for it ; to instruct 
him how to hold it in estimation, and to inspire him, above all, 
with a love for truth. By this method, indeed, we make no great 
advances; but then we never take a useless step, nor are we 
obliged to turn back again." 

The method of learning, therefore, was to be chosen with the 
view of bringing out the pupil's powers; and the subjects of 
instruction were to be sufficiently varied to give the pupil a 
notion of the connection between various branches of knowl- 
edge, and to ascertain the direction in which his taste and talent 
would lead him. 

The first thing to be aimed at is to excite a desire for knowl- 
edge. " Direct the attention of your pupil to the phenomena of 
nature, and you will soon awaken his curiosity ; but to keep that 
curiosity alive, you must be in no haste to satisfy it. Put ques- 
tions to him adapted to his capacity, and leave him to resolve 
them. He is not to know anything because you have told it to 
him, but because he has himself comprehended it; he should not 
learn, but discover science. If ever yon substitute authority in 
the place of argument, he will reason no longer; he will be ever 



56 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

afterward bandied like a shuttlecock between the opinions of 
others." 

Curiosity, when aroused, should be fostered by suspense, and 
the tutor must, above all things, avoid what Mr. Wilson, of 
Rugb}^, has lately called "didactic teaching." "I do not at all 
admire explanatory discourses," says Rousseau; "young people 
give little attention to them, and never retain them in memory. 
The things themselves are the best explanations. I can never 
enough repeat it, that we make words of too much consequence; 
with our prating modes of education we make nothing but 
praters." 

The grand thing to be educed was self-teaching. "Obliged to 
learn of himself, the pupil makes use of his own reason, and not 
of that of others ; for to give no influence to opinion, no weight 
should be given to authority; and it is certain that our errors 
arise less from ourselves than from others. From this continual 
exercise of the understanding will result a vigor of mind, like 
that which we give the body by labor and fatigue. Another 
advantage is, that we advance only in proportion to our 
strength. The mind, like the body, carries that only which it 
can carry. But when the understanding appropriates every- 
thing before it commits it to the memory, whatever it afterward 
draws from thence is properly its own; whereas, in overcharging 
the mind without the knowledge of the understanding, we expose 
ourselves to the inconvenience of never drawing out anything 
which belongs to us." 

Again he writes: "We acquire, without doubt, notions more 
clear and certain of things we thus learn of ourselves than of 
those we are taught by others. Another advantage also result- 
ing from this method is, that we do not accustom ourselves to a 
servile submission to the authority of others; but by exercising 
our reason, grow every day more ingenious in the discovery of 
the relations of things, in connecting our ideas and in the con- 
trivance of machines; whereas, by adopting those which are put 
into our hands, our invention grows dull and indifferent, as the 
man who never dresses himself, but is served in everything by his 



JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 57 

servants, and drawn about everywhere by his horses, loses by 
degrees the activity and use of his Umbs. Boileau boasted that 
he had taught Racine to rhyme with difficulty. Among the many 
admirable methods taken to abridge the study of the sciences, we 
are in great want of one to make us learn them with effort. ^^ 

Following in the steps of Locke, Rousseau required his model 
pupil to learn a trade. But this was not to be acquired as a mere 
amusement. First, Rousseau required it to secure the self- 
dependence of his pupil, and secondly, to improve his head as well 
as his hands. "If, instead of keeping a boy poring over books, I 
employ him in a workshop, his hands will be busied to the 
improvement of his understanding; he will become a philosopher, 
while he thinks himself only an artisan." 

I hope the quotations I have now given will suffice to convey 
to the reader some of Rousseau's main ideas on the subject of 
education. The " Emile " was once a popular book in this coun- 
try. In David Williams' lectures (dated 1789) we read, "Rous- 
seau is in full possession of public attention. . . . To be heard 
on the subject of education it is expedient to direct our observa- 
tions to his works." But now the case is different. In the words 
of Mr. Herman Merivale, " Rousseau was dethroned with the fall of 
his extravagant child, the Republic." Perhaps we have been less 
influenced by both father and child than any nation of Europe; 
and if so, we owe this to our horror of extravagance. The Eng- 
lish intellect is eminently decorous, and Rousseau's disregard 
for "appearances," or rather his evident purpose of making an 
impression by defying " appearances" and saying just the oppo- 
site of what is expected, simply distresses it. Hence, the " Emile " 
has long ceased to be read in this country, and the only English 
translation I have met with was published in the last century, 
and has not been reprinted. So Rousseau now works upon us 
only through his disciples, especially Pestalozzi; but the reader 
will see from the passages I have selected that we have often 
listened to Rousseau unawares. 

The truths of the "Emile" will survive the fantastic forms 
which are there forced upon them. Of these truths, one of the 



58 THE TEACHER IX LITERATURE. 

most important, to my mind, is the distinction drawn between 
childhood and youth. 1 do not, of course, insist with Rousseau 
that a child should be taught nothing till the day on which he is 
twelve years old, and then that instruction should begin all at 
once. There is no hard and fast line that can be drawn between 
the two stages of development; the change from one to the other 
is gradual and, in point of time, differs greatly with the indi- 
vidual. But, as I have elsewhere said, I believe the difference 
between the child and the youth to be greater than the difference 
between the youth and the man; and I believe, further, that this 
is far too much overlooked in our ordinary education. Eous- 
seau, by drawing attention to the sleep of reason and to the 
activity and vigor of the senses in childhood, became one of 
the most important educational reformers, and a benefactor of 
mankind. 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 

1714-1763. 

William Shenstone is one of the best known minor poets of the 
eighteenth century. He owes distinction as much to his choice of sub- 
jects and to the peculiarity of his Hfe as to the felicity of his verse. Com- 
ing after a generation whose leading poets wrote for fashionable society, 
he shut himself up in the country, tried to follow the life Arcadian, and 
wrote in the spirit of a recluse. He was born at Leasowes, Worcester- 
shire, England, in 1714, and after passing through Pembroke College, 
Oxford, he retired to the estate which he had inherited at Leasowes, 
thereby realizing Pope's ideal in the "Tde to Solitude," turned his pater- 
nal estate into an elaborate landscape garden and lived there until his 
death in 1763. From the time that the management of the estate fell 
into his own hands, "he began," says Johnson, "to point his prospects, 
to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters, 
which he did with such judgment and such fancy as to make his little 
domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skillful." 

His pastoral ballads in four parts, one of his earliest compositions, is 
also one of his best, but his "Schoolmistress" is the poem by which he 
keeps a place in literature. 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

The inimitable "Schoolmistress" of Shenstone is one of the felicities 
of genius ; but the purpose of this poem has been entirely misconceived. 
Johnson, acknowledging this charming effusion to be "the most pleas- 
ing of Shenstone's productions," observes, "I know not what claim it 
has to stand among the moral works." The truth is, that it was 
intended for quite a different purpose by the author, and Dodsley, the 
editor of his works, must have strangely blundered in designating it "a 
moral poem." It may be classed with a species of poetry till recently 
rare in our language, and which we sometimes find among the Italians 
in their rime piacevoH, or poesie burlesche, which does not always consist 
of low humor in a facetious style, with jingling rhymes, to which form we 
attach our idea of a burlesque poem. There is a refined species of ludi- 
crous poetry which is comic yet tender, lusory yet elegant, and with such 
a blending of the serious and the facetious that the result of such a poem 
may often, among its other pleasures, produce a sort of ambiguity; so 
that we do not always know w^hether the writer is laughing at his sub- 

(59) 



60 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ject, or whether he is to be laughed at. " The Schoolmistress" of Shen- 
stone has been admired for its exquisitely ludicrous turn. This discovery I 
owe to the good fortune of possessing the original edition of "The School- 
mistress," which the author printed under his own directions, and to his 
own fancy. To this piece of ludicrous poetry, as he calls it, "lest it 
should be mistaken," he added a ludicrous index, " partly to show fools 
that I am in jest." But "the fool," his subsequent editor, who, I regret 
to say, was Robert Dodsley, thought proper to suppress this amusing 
"Ludicrous Index," and the consequence is, as the poet foresaw, that 
his aim has been mistaken. Isaac D'Israeli. 

But with all the beauties of the Leasowes in our minds, it may still be 
regretted that, instead of devoting his whole soul to clumping beeches 
and projecting mottoes for summer-houses, he had not gone more into 
living nature for subjects, and described her interesting realities with the 
same fond and natural touches which give so much delightfulness to his 
portrait of " The Schoolmistress." Thomas Campbell. 

The Schoolmistress.* 

I. 

Ah me ! full sorely is mj heart forlorn, 
To think how modest worth neglected lies; 
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn 
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise; 
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize : 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; 
Such as I oft have chanced to espy, 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

II. 

In every village mark'd with little spire, 
Embower'd in trees and hardly known to fame, 
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 



*The " Schoolmistress " of the poet Shenstone in his early days was Dame 
Sarah Lloyd, and in the original edition of his poems the schoolhouse with its 
thatched roof and " birch tree " near by was shown in the frontispiece. 



WILLIAM SHEXSTOXE. 61 

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the pow'r of this relentless dame; 
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, 
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. 

III. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
Which learning near her little dome did stow; 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow; 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew 
But their limbs shudder 'd, and their pulse beat low; 
And as they look VI they found their horror grew. 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. 



V. 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green, 
On which the tribe their gambols do display; 
And at the door impris'ning board is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray ; 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound, 
Do learning's little tenement betray ; 
Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. 

VI. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield : 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, . 
As is the harebell that adorns the field : 
And in her hand, for scepter, she does wield 



62 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined 
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd ; 
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, 
And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind. 



VIII. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; 
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 
■ 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair, 
'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare: 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around. 
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; 
,For they in gaping wonderment abound. 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. 

IX. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 
Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear, 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, 
Who should not honor'd eld with these revere : 
For never title yet so mean could prove, 
But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 



One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame; 
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; 
Such favor did her past deportment claim; 



WILLIAM SHEXSTONE. 63 

And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. 



XI. 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak 
That in her garden sipp'd the silv'ry dew ; 
Where no Tain flow'r disclosed a gaud^^ streak; 
But herbs for use, and phj^sic, not a few. 
Of grey renown, within those borders grew. 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue; 
The lowly gill that never dares to climb ; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. 



XII. 

Yet euphrasy, may not be left unsung. 
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; 
And pungent radish biting infant's tongue ; 
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound; 
And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posy found; 
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
Shall be, ere-while, in arid bundles bound. 
To lurk amidst the labors of her loom. 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume. 



XIII. 

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd 

The daintiest garden of the proudest peer ; 

Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 

A sacred shelter for its branches here; 

Where edged with gold its glitt'ring skirts appear. 



64 THE TEACHER IX LITERATURE. 

wassel da^^s ! customs meet and well ! 
Ere this was banish'd from his lofty spjiere, 
Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell. 



XVI. 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 
By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld defaced, 
In which, when he receives his diadem, 
Our so V 'reign prince and liefest liege is placed, 
The matron sate; and some with rank she graced 
(The source of children's and of courtier's pride). 
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; 
-And warned them not the fretful to deride. 
But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 

XVII. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, 
And some entice with pittance small of praise; 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays. 
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways, 
Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 

XVIII. 

Lo now with state she utters the command ! 
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
Their books of stature small they take in hand, 
Which with pellucid horn secured are, 
To save from fingers wet the letters fair. 



WILLIAM SHEXSTOXE. 65 

The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
St. George's high achievements does declare; 
On which thilk " wight that has y-gazing been 
Kens the forth-coming rod, nnpleasing sight, I ween! 



XX. 

ruthful scene! when, from a nook obscure, 
His Kttle sister doth his peril see. 
All playful as she sate she grows demure; 
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 
She meditates a pray'r to set him free. 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny 
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) 
To her sad grief that swells in either eye. 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 

XXI. 

No longer can she now her shrieks command ; 
And hardly she forbears thro' awful fear 
To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, 
To stay hard justice in its mild career. 
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear 
(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow). 
She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow. 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

XXII. 

But ah, what pen his piteous plight may trace? 

Or what device his loud laments explain 

The form uncouth of his disguised face? 

The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? 

The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ? 



* That. 

T. L.— 5 



66 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, 
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
And through the thatch his cries each falling stroke proclaim. 

XXIII. 

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay- 
Attend and con their tasks wdth mickle care ; 
By turns astonied, ev'ry twig survey, 
And from their fellow's hateful wounds beware; 
Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; 
Till fear has taught them a performance meet, 
And to the well-known chest the dame repair; 
Whence oft with sugar' d cates she doth 'em greet, 
And ginger-bread y-rare; now certes doubly sweet! 



XXVI. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought. 
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; 
Ne for his fellow's joyaunce careth aught, 
But to the wind all merriment resigns ; 
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ; 
And many a sullen look askance is sent, 
Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; 
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent; 
The more doth he, perverse, her 'havior past resent. 

XXVII. 

Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be 1 
But if that pride it be which thus inspires, 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see, 
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires: 
Ah! better far than all the muses' lyres. 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 67 

All coward arts, is valor's gen'rous heat; 
The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, 
Like Vernon's patriot soul ; more justly great 
Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry false deceit. 

XXVIII. 

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! 
Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here,* 
And there a chancellor in embryo, 
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so. 
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die! 
Tho' now he crawl along the ground so low, 
Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, 
Wisheth, poor starv'ling elf! his paper kite may fly. 



XXX. 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky. 
And Liberty unbars her prison-door; 
And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
And now the grassy cirque han covered o'er 
With boist'rous revel-rout and w41d uproar; 
A thousa.nd ways in wanton rings they run ; 
Heav'n shield their short-lived pastimes, I implore! 
For well may freedom, erst so dearly won. 
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun, 

* D'lsraeli says : " I cannot but think that the far-famed stanza in ' Gray's 
Elegy,' where he discovers men of genius in peasants, as Shenstone has in chil- 
dren, was suggested by this original conception. 

'"Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood,' 

Is, to me, a congenial thought, with an echoed turn of expression from the lines of 
* The Schoolmistress.' " 



THOMAS FULLER. 

1608-1661. 

Thomas Fuller, a witty divine and historian, son of a father of the 
same name, was born at Aldwincle, Northamptonshire, England, 1608, 
and died a,t Covent-Garden in 1661. He was a remarkably precocious 
boy, as shown by his admittance to Queen's College, Cambridge, at 
twelve years of age. The strength of his memory w^as proverbial, and 
he possessed a vivid imagination and the happy faculty of illustration. 
He served as a royal, army chaplain, and his last promotion was that of 
Chaplain in Extraordinary to Charles II. He is not only recognized as a 
great preacher, but he earned a reputation also as a great writer. His 
principal literary work was in the line of church history and biographical 
sketches. 

CHARACTEKIZATION, 

There was in Thomas Fuller a combination of those qualities which 
minister to our entertainment, such as few have ever possessed in an 
equal degree. He was, first of all, a man of multifarious reading, of 
great and digested knowledge, which an extraordinary retentiveness of 
memory preserved ever ready for use, and considerable accuracy of Judg- 
ment enabled him successfully to apply. So well does he vary his treas- 
ures of memory and observation, so judiciously does he interweave his 
anecdotes, quotations, and remarks, that it is impossible to conceive a 
more delightful checker-work of acute thought and apposite illustration 
of original and extracted sentiment than is presented in his works. 

"Retrospective Review." 

Selections. 

I.— THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER. 

There is scarce any profession in the commonwealth more 
necessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons whereof 
I conceive to be these: First, young scholars make this calling 
their refuge; yea, perchance, before the^'^ have taken any degree 
in the university, commence as schoolmasters in the country, as 
if nothing else were required to set up this profession but only a 
(68) 



THOMAS FULLER. 69 

rod and a ferula. Secondly, others who are able use it only as a 
passage to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present 
fortune, till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves 
to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they are disheartened 
from doing their best with the miserable reward which in some 
places they receive, being masters to their children and slaves to 
their parents. Fourthly, being grown rich they grow^ negligent, 
and scorn to touch the school but by the proxy of the usher. 
But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. 

His genius inclines him with delight to his profession. God of 
his goodness hath fitted several men for several callings, that the 
necessity of church and state, in all conditions, may be provided 
for. And thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's life, 
undertaking it with desire and delight, and discharging it with 
dexterity and happy success. 

He studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they their 
books; and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And 
though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend 
to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly 
make a grammar of boys' natures. 

He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching ; not leading 
them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his precepts for 
children to swallow, hanging clogs on the nimbleness of his ow^n 
soul, that his scholars may go along with him. 

He is moderate in inflicting deserved correction. Many a 
schoolmaster better answereth the name paidotribes* than 
pmdagogos,^ rather tearing his scholars' flesh with whipping 
than giving them good education. No wonder if his scholars 
hate the muses, being presented unto them in the shapes of fiends 
and furies. 

Such an Orbilius mars more scholars than he makes. Their 
tyranny hath caused many tongues to stammer which spake 
plain by nature, and whose stuttering at first was nothing else 
but fears quavering on their speech at their master's presence; 



* Boy-beater. 
■jr Boy-teacher, 



70 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and whose mauling them about their heads hath dulled those 
who in quickness exceeded their master. 

To conclude, let this, amongst other motives, make school- 
masters careful in their place — that the eminences of their 
scholars have commended the memories of their schoolmasters 
to posterity. 

II.— OF MEMORY. 

It is the treasure-house of the mind, wherein the monuments 
thereof are kept and preserved. Plato makes it the mother of 
the muses. Aristotle sets it in one degree further, making expe- 
rience the mother of arts, memory the parent of experience. 
Philosophers place it in the rear of the head ; and it seems the 
mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for 
it, scratching it when they are at a loss. This again is two-fold : 
onej the simple retention of things; the other, a regaining them 
when forgotten. 

Artificial memory is rather a trick than an art, and more for 
the gain of the teacher than profit of the learners. Like the 
tossing of a pike, which is no part of the postures and motions 
thereof, and is rather for ostentation than use, to show the 
strength and nimbleness of the arm, and is often used by wan- 
dering soldiers, as an introduction to beg. Understand it of 
the artificial rules which at this day are delivered by memory 
mountebanks; for sure an art thereof may be made (wherein 
as yet the world is defective), and that no more destructive to 
natural memory than spectacles are to eyes, which girls in Hoi- 
land wear from twelve years of age. But till this be found out, 
let us observe these plain rules : 

First, soundly infix in thy mind what thou desirest to remem- 
ber. What wonder is it if agitation of business Jog that out of 
thy head which was there rather tacked than fastened? It is 
best knocking in the nail over night, and clinching it the next 
morning. 

Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a servant a 
slave. Remember, Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a 



THOMAS FULLER. 71 

camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a 
purse, if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it ; 
take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest 
the greediness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion 
thereof. 

Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carry 
twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when 
it lies untoward, flapping and hanging about his shoulders. 
Things orderly fardled up under heads are most portable. 

Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it 
betwixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias 
carries all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be 
beggared and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, 
should rob and strip him. I know some have a commonplace* 
against commonplace books, t and yet perchance will privately 
make use of what they publicly declaim against. A common- 
place book contains many notions in garrison, whence the owner 
may draw out an army into the field on competent warning. 



* Objection. 

fit is an excellent plan for every. teacher to keep a commonplace book of con- 
siderable size, different portions of it being set apart for the different subjects 
upon which he is to give instruction.— Pag'e. 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZI. 

1746-1827. 

JoHAXx Heinrich Pestalozzi is now recognized as one of the most 
eminent of modern educational reformers. He was born at Zurich, Switz- 
erland, in] 746, and died at Neuhof, the home of his youth, in 1827. His 
father died when he was quite young, and he was brought up by his 
mother. From his earliest years his time was spent in schemes for 
improving the condition of his people. His first publication was "The 
Evening Hours of a Hermit," a series of aphorisms and reflections. 
This was followed by his masterpiece, "Leonard and Gertrude," which 
was at once received with favor, and the name of Pestalozzi was given a 
place which for all time will secure it from oblivion. Prof. Joseph Payne, 
of 'the College of Preceptors, in London, gives the following estimate of 
the life and character of this great man : 

"At fifty-two years of age, we find Pestalozzi utterly unacquainted 
with the science and the art of education, and very scantily furnished 
even with elementary knowledge, undertaking at Stanz, in the canton 
Unterwalden, the charge of eighty children, whom the events of war have 
rendered homeless and destitute. Here he was at last in the position 
which, during years of sorrow aiid disappointment, he had eagerly de- 
sired to fill. He was now brought into immediate contact with ignorance, 
vice, and brutality, and had the opportunity for testing the power of his 
long-cherished theories. The man whose absorbing idea had been that 
the ennobling of the people, even of the lowest class, through education, 
was no mere dream, was now, in the midst of extraordinary difficulties, 
to struggle with the solution of the problem. And surely if any man, 
consciously possessing strength to fight, and only desiring to be brought 
face to face with his adversary, ever had his utmost wishes granted, it 
was Pestalozzi at Stanz. Let us try for a moment to realize the circum- 
stances — the forces of the enemy on the one side, the single arm on the 
other, and the field of the combat. The house in which the eighty chil- 
dren were assembled, to be boarded, lodged, and taught, was an old tum- 
ble-down Ursuline convent, scarcely habitable, and destitute of all the 
conveniences of life. The only apartment suitable for a schoolroom was 
about twenty-four feet square, furnished with a few desks and forms; 
and into this were crowded the wretched children, noisy, dirty, diseased, 
and ignorant, and with the manners and habits of barbarians. Pesta- 
(72) 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZI. 73 

lozzi's only helper in themauagement of the institution was an old woman 
who cooked the food and swept the rooms ; so that he was, as he tells us 
himself, not only the teacher, but the paymaster, the man-servant, and 
almost the housemaid of the children. 

"'I was obliged,' he says, 'unceasingly, to be everything to my 
children.- I was alone with them from morning till night. It was from 
my hand that they received whatever could be of service both to their 
bodies and minds. All succor, all consolation, all instruction came to 
them immediately from myself. Their hands were in my hands; my 
eyes were fixed on theirs, my tears mingled with theirs, my smiles 
encountered theirs, my soup was their soup, my drink was their drink. 
I had around me neither family, friends, nor servants ; I had only them. 
I was with them when they were in health, by their side when they were 
ill. I slept in their midst. I was the last to go to bed, the first to rise 
in the morning. When we were in bed, I used to pray with them and 
talk to them until they went to sleep. They wished me to do so.' 

"This active, practical, self-sacrificing love, beaming on the frozen 
hearts of the children, by degrees melted and animated them. But it 
was only hy degrees. Pestalozzi was at first disappointed. He had 
expected too much, and had formed no plan of action. He even prided 
himself upon his want of plan. 'I knew,' he says, 'no system, no 
method, no art but that which rested on the simple consequences of the 
firm belief of the children in my love toward them. I wished to know no 
other.' Before long, however, he began to see that the rcvsponse which 
the movement of his heart toward theirs called forth was rather a 
response of his personal efforts, than one dictated by their own will and 
conscience. It excited action, but nbt spontaneous, independent action. 
This did not satisfy him. He wished to make them act from strictly 
moral motives. 

"But he conceived — and justly — th at their intellectual training was 
to be looked on as part of their moral training. Whatever increases 
our knowledge of things as they are, leads to the appreciation of the 
truth ; for truth, in the widest sense of the term, is this knowledge. But 
the acquisition of knowledge, as requiring mental effort, and therefore 
exercising the active powers, necessarily increases the capacity to form 
judgments on moral questions ; so that, in proportion as you cultivate 
the intellect, you must train 'the moral powers which are to carry its 
decisions into effect. Moral and intellectual education must conse- 
quently, in the formation of the human being, proceed together, the 
one stimulating and maintaining the action of the other. Pestalozzi, 
therefore, instructed as well as educated, and indeed educated by means 
of instruction. In carrying out this object, he proceeded from the near, 
the practical, the actual, to the remote, the abstract, and the ideal." 



74 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"One of the aspects in which he has been brought before us — and it 
deserves every consideration — is that of an earnest, self- sacrificing, en- 
thusiastic philanthropist, endowed with what Richter calls 'an almighty 
love,' of which the first and last thought was, how he might raise the 
debased and suffering among his countrymen to a higher level of happi- 
ness and knowledge, by bestowing upon them the blessings of education. 
It is right that he should be thus exhibited to the world; for never did 
any man better deserve to be enrolled in the noble army of martyrs who 
have died that others might live, than Pestalozzi. To call him the How- 
ard of educational philanthropists is only doing scant justice to his 
devoted character, and underestimates rather than overestimates the 
man. 

"Another aspect in which Pestalozzi is sometimes presented to us is 
that of an unhandy, unpractical, dreamy theorist; whose views were 
ever extending beyond the compass of his control ; who, like the djinn of 
the Eastern story, called into being forces which mastered instead of 
obeying him ; whose ' unrivaled incapacity for governing' (this is his own 
confession) made him the victim of circumstances ; who was utterly 
wanting in worldly wisdom; who, knowing man, did not know men; and 
who, therefore, is to be set down as one who promised much more than 
he performed. It is impossible to deny that there is substantial truth in 
such a representation ; but this only increases the wonder that, in spite 
of his disqualifications, he accomplished so much. It is still true that 
his awakening voice, calling for reform in education, was responded to by 
hundreds of earnest intelligent men, who placed themselves under his 
banner, and were proud to follow whither the Luther of educational re- 
form wished to lead them. A third view of Pestalozzi presents him to us 
as merely interested about elementary education — and this appears to 
many who are engaged in teaching what are called higher subjects a 
matter in which they have little or no concern. Those, however, who 
thus look down on Pestalozzi' s work, only show, by their indifference, a 
jjrofound want both of self-knowledge and of a knowledge of his princi- 
ples and his purpose. Elementary education, in the sense in which Pes- 
talozzi understands it, is, or ought to be, the concern of every teacher, 
whatever his especial subject, and whatever the age of his pupils ; and 
when he sees that elementary education is only another expression for 
the forming of the character and mind of the child, he must acknowledge 
that this object comes properly within the sphere of his labors, and de- 
serves, on every ground, his thoughtful attention. 

"In spite, then, of Pestalozzi's patent disqualifications in many 
respects for the task he undertook; in spite of his ignorance of even 
common subjects (for he spoke, read, wrote, and ciphered badly, and 
knew next to nothing of classics or science) ; in spite of his want of 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 75 

worldly wisdom, of any comprehensive and exact knowledge of men and 
of things : in spite of his being merely an elementary teacher, — through 
the force of his all-conquering love, the nobility of his heart, the resist- 
less energy of his enthusiasm, his firm grasp of a few first principles, his 
eloquent exposition of them in words, his resolute manifestation of them 
in deeds, he stands forth among educational reformers as the man whose 
influence on education is wider, deeper, more penetrating, than that of 
all the rest — the prophet and the sovereign of the domain in which he 
lived and labored." 

CnARACTEEIZATION. 

The materials for "Leonard and Gertrude "were gathered during long 
years of suffering and disappointment; and the work itself was the 
result of an intense love, which made the cause of the poor and friendless 
its own. He had already failed in a i^ractical attempt to relieve the unfor- 
tunate, but he had obtained a deeper insight into the causes which per- 
petuated the evils of society. With a bleeding heart, he had seen that 
poverty, unless counterbalanced by a healthy culture of the mind and 
soul, was generally accompanied by moral and physical wretchedness ; 
by intemperance, ignorance, and superstition. He was also able to 
trace part of "the sufferings of the poor to the selfishness and hardness of 
the rich, many of whom derived a shameful profit from the improvidence 
of their unfortunate brethren. He had also, occasionally, seen in the 
cottages of the poor cheerfulness, peace, and comfort ; and this spirit he 
had, with great certainty, always traced to the influence of a sound home 
education, conducted by an intelligent mother. 

The characters of this tale, far from engaging in brilliant or dazzling 
actions, are great in their very simplicity and truth to nature. The 
principal ones are: Gertrude, a pattern of a good and intelligent wife 
and mother — an educator who tries to fulfill the duties of her office to 
thier fullest extent, without troubling her head with plans of emancipa- 
tion ; Leonard, her husband, ^vho, however, plays only a secondary part ; 
Arner, the lord of the manor, who tries to effect a thorough refoi'm in 
the administration of the parish intrusted to his care; Ernst, a worthy 
clergyman, who assists Arner, and works on the hearts and convictions, 
and not on the fears and prejudices, of his parishioners; Gliilphy, the 
schoolmaster, in whose teaching and discipline Pestalozzi embodies some 
of the favorite ideas of education which he afterward matured ; Hum- 
mel, the bailiff, chief magistrate and judge of the village — the personifi- 
cation of wickedness, avarice and pride— a man with a heart hardened 
through many j^ears of mismanagement and crime; and Rudi, one of 
the victims of the bailiff, whose story forms some of the most affecting 
chapters of the book. 



76 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Domestic education and social reform were considered so important 
by Pestalozzi, that, after completing "Leonard and Gertrude," he wrote 
another treatise upon these subjects, entitled "Christopher and Eliza," 
wliich was published in 1782. In the preface to the first edition of this 
book, Pestalozzi remarks that it was written principally to supply a 
commentary to "Leonard and Gertrude," the moral lessons of which he 
wished to impress upon the convictions of the people. He concludes by 
saying : " I know it will appear tedious to mere novel readers, but I de- 
sire that it should be read in humble cottages, many of the inmates of 
which will find in it sentiments corresponding to their own experiences." 

The personages who, during thirty evenings, are supposed to read 
and discuss as many chapters of "Leonard and Gertrude," are: Chris- 
topher, a wealthy and intelligent farmer; Eliza, his wife; Josiah, their 
servant; and Fritz, their son. 

By a strange anomaly, which is in strong contrast with the usual 
order of things, Josiah is the principal speaker, and the one who deals 
most in abstruse reflections. Christopher is next in importance; while 
Eliza only occasionally makes shrewd and sensible remarks, mostly upon 
moral and educational questions. Fritz is a silent listener, but, at the 
end of each conversation, is requested to sum up all the maxims which 
he has gathered from the story of the discussion. The little prodigy does 
this with such an amount of wisdom, originality, and wit, and in such 
flowing language, that one is astonished at the precocity of even an 
imaginary child. Hermann Krusi. 

The School in Bonnal. 

(From "Leonard and Gertrude.") 

I.— A GOOD SCHOOL IS FOUNDED. 

Since the squire had returned from Cotton Meyer's, he had 
spent every moment he could spare from the lieutenant in con- 
sultation with him on the organization of a new school. They 
both came to the conclusion that a child is always well educated 
when he has learned to practice skillfully, orderly, and to the 
benefit of him and his, what is to be his future occupation. 

This principal object of all education seemed to them at once 
the first requisite of a reasonable school for human beings. And 
they perceived that the lieutenant, and any person proposing to 
establish a good school for farmers' and factory children, must 
either himself know and understand what such children need to 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 77 

know and do in order to become capable farmers and factory 
workers ; or, if he himself does not understand it, that he must 
inquire and learn about it, and have those at hand who do know 
and can show him. 

They naturally thought first of Cotton Meyer himself, and 
immediately after this conversation and their meal they went 
to him. 

" This is the man of whom I have said so much to you," said 
the squire to the lieutenant ; and then, to Meyer, '< and this is the 
gentleman who, I hope, will encourage you about your school." 

Meyer did not understand; but the squire explained to him, 
saying that this was to be the schoolmaster of the village. 

Meyer could not sufficiently wonder at this, and after a time 
he said, "If the gentleman is willing to take so much pains, we 
cannot thank him enough; but it will require time to become well 
acquainted with our condition and ways in the village." 

Lieut. "I presume so; but one must begin some time or 
other ; and I shall not regret any pains I take to examine, as 
thoroughly as possible, what is needed and what your children 
can properly learn, in order to be well fitted for their farming 
and manufacturing." 

Meyer. " That will be an excellent beginning.'* 

Lieut. " I do not know how else I ought to begin ; and I shall 
take every opportunity of becoming acquainted with all manner 
of house and field labor, so as to learn correctly what training 
and what example your children need, in order to the right edu- 
cation for their vocation and circumstances." 

Mej^er's Mareieli was quite at home with the lieutenant. She 
showed him all about the house, and in the stables, what the 
children must do to learn to do in good order whatever was nec- 
essary for themselves and their parents; made them dig in the 
garden and throw earth hither and thither, to even the ground 
and improve its appearance, and adjust the edges; and to scat- 
ter fodder correctly. The more he saw, the more questions he 
asked; inquired how they measured hay, reckoned tithes, and 
kept account of the cotton manufacture ; what was the difference 



78 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

in wages in the different kinds of cotton, and a liundred other 
things. These they explained to him as far as they could. Then 
they proposed to teach the children how to spin. But Mareieli 
said, "We take in some hundred zentners of yarn in a year, and 
I have never yet brought them to spin right well. And I cannot 
complain about it, either, for they have to do a good deal in the 
fields and about the cattle. But if you desire to see a good 
arrangement for the matter of spinning, you must go to see the 
mason's' wife. With her there is something to be seen on that 
point; but not with us." 

Lieut. "Is not the mason's wife, of whom you speak, named 
Gertrude?" 

Mareieli. "It seems that you know her alread3^ ? " 

Lieut. " No ; but the squire has proposed to go directly from 
you to her." 

Mar. " Well ; then you will see that I told you correctly." 

II.— A GOOD SCHOOL IS THE FOUNDATION OF ALL GOOD FORTUNE. 

Gertrude's room was so full, when they entered, that they 
could scarcely pass between the wheels. Gertrude, who had not 
expected to see any strangers, told the children as the door opened 
to get up and make room. But the squire would not let one of 
them move, but gave his hand first to the pastor and then to the 
lieutenant, to lead them behind the children, next to the wall, to 
Gertrude's table. 

You could not believe how much the scene delighted these gen- 
tlemen. What they had seen with Cotton Meyer seemed nothing, 
in comparison. 

And very naturally. Order and comfort about a rich man do 
not surprise. We think hundreds of others do not do so well be- 
cause they have not money. But the happiness and comfort in a 
poor hut, showing so unanswerably that everybod^^ iu the world 
could be comfortable if they could maintain good order, and were 
well brought up — this astonishes a well-disposed mind almost 
beyond power of expression. 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 79 

But the gentlemen had a whole room full of such children, in 
the full enjoym.ent of such blessings, before their eyes. The squire 
seemed for a time to be seeing the picture of the first-born of his 
future better-taught people, as if in a dream; and the falcon eyes 
of the lieutenant glanced hither and thither like lightning, from 
child to child, from hand to hand, from work to work, from eye 
to eye. The more he saw, the fuller did his heart grow wdth the 
thought, " She has done, and completely, what we seek ; the school 
which we look for is in her room." 

The room was for a time as still as death. The gentlemen 
could do nothing but gaze and gaze, and be silent. But Ger- 
trude's heart beat at the stillness and at the marks of respect 
which the lieutenant showed to her during it, and which bordered 
on reverence. The children, however, spun away briskly, and 
laughed out of their eyes to each other; for they perceived that 
the gentlemen were there on their account, and to see their work. 

The lieutenant's first words to Gertrude were, "Do these 
children all belong to you, mistress? " 

"No," said Gertrude, "they are not all mine; " and she then 
pointed out, one after another, which were hers and which were 
Rudi's. 

"Think of it, lieutenant," said the pastor; "these children 
who belong to Rudi could not spin one thread four weeks ago." 

The lieutenant looked at the pastor and at Gertrude and 
answered, " Is it possible ! " 

Gertrude. "That is not remarkable. A child will learn to 
spin right well in a couple of weeks. I have known children to 
learn in two days." 

Squire. "It is not that which I am wondering at in this room, 
but quite another thing. These children of other people, since 
the three or four weeks ago when Gertrude received them, have 
come to look so differently, that in truth I scarcely knew one of 
them. Living death and the extremest misery spoke from their 
faces ; and these are so gone that no trace of them is left." 

The lieutenant replied in French, "But what does she do to 
the children, then ? " 



80 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Squire. " God knows ! " 

Pastor. " If you stay here all day, j^ou hear no tone, nor see 
any shadow of anything particular. It seems always, and in 
everything she does, as if any other woman could do it; and 
certainly the commonest wife would never imagine that Gertrude 
was doing, or could do, anything she herself could not." 

Lieut. "You could not say more to raise her in my estima- 
tion. That is the culmination of art, where men think thei*e 
is none at all. The loftiest is so simple that children and boys 
think they could do much more than that." 

As the gentlemen conversed in French, the children began to 
look at each other and laugh. Heireli and the child who sat 
opposite to her made mouths to each other, as if to say, "Par- 
len, parlen, parlen." 

Gertrude only nodded, and all was still in a moment. And 
then the lieutenant, seeing a book lying on every wheel, asked 
Gertrude what they were doing wdth them. 

Ger. " Oh, they learn out of them." 

Lieut. " But not while they are spinning?" 

Ger. "Certainly." 

Lieut. " I want to see that." 

Squire. " Yes ; you must show us that, Gertrude." 

Ger. " Children, take up your books and learn." 

Children. " Loud, as we did before?" 

Ger. "Yes, loud, as you did before; but right." 

Then the children opened their books, and each laid the 
appointed page before him, and studied the lesson which had 
been set. But the wheels turned as before, although the children 
kept their eyes wholly on the books. 

The lieutenant could not be satisfied with seeing, and desired 
her to show him everything relating to her management of the 
children, and what she taught them. 

She would have excused herself and said that it was nothing 
at all but what the gentlemen knew, and a thousand times better 
than she. 

But the squire intimated to her to proceed. Then she told the 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 81 

children to close their books, and she taught them, by rote, a 
stanza from the song : 

"How beautiful the sunbeams' play, 
And how their soft and brilliant ray 
Delights and quickens all mankind — 
The eye, the brain, and all the mind !" 

The third stanza, which they were then learning, reads thus : 

" The sun is set. And thus goes down. 
Before the Lord of heaven's frown, 
The loftiness and pride of men, 
And all is dusk and night again." 

She repeated one line at a time, distinctly and slowly, and the 
children said it after her, just as slowly, and very distinctly, and 
did so over and over, until one said, " I know it now." Then she 
let that one repeat the stanza alone; and when he knew every 
syllable, she permitted him to repeat it to the others, and them 
to repeat after him, until they knew it. Then she began with 
them all three of the stanzas, of which they had already learned 
the first two. And then she showed the gentlemen how she 
taught them arithmetic, and her mode was the simplest and 
most practical that can be imagined. 

But of that I shall speak again in another place. 

III.— RECRUITING OFFICER'S DOINGS. 

The lieutenant was every moment more convinced that this 
was the right instruction for his school; but he was also con- 
vinced that he needed a woman like this, if the giving it was to 
be not merely possible, but actual. 

A Prussian recruiting officer does not contrive so many means 
of getting into the service a fellow who comes up to the standard 
as the lieutenant contrived to decoy into his trap this woman, 
who came up to his standard in school teaching. 

''But, mistress," he began, "could not the arrangements in 
your room here be introduced into a school? " 

T. P.— 6. 



82 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

She thought a moment, and repHed, ''I don't know. But it 
seems as if what is possible with ten children is possible with 
forty. But it would require much ; and I do not believe that it 
would be easy to find a schoolmaster who would permit such an 
arrangement in his school." 

Lieut, "But if you knew of one who desired to introduce it, 
would you help him ? " 

Ger. [Laughing.) " Yes, indeed ; as much as I could." 

Lieut. "And if I am he ? " 

Ger. "Are what?" 

Lieut. "The schoolmaster, who would be glad to organize 
such a school as you have in your room." 

Ger. " You are no schoolmaster." 

Lieut. "Yes, I am. Ask the gentleman." 

Ger. " Yes, perhaps, in a city, and in something of which we 
know neither gigs nor gags.'^ 

Lieut. "No; but, honestly, in a village." 

Ger. (Pointing to the wheels.) " Of such children? " 

Lieut. "Y'es, of such children." 

Ger. "It is a long way from me to the place where school 
masters for such children look like you." 

Lieut. "Not so far." 

Ger. " I think it is." 

Lieut. "But you will help me if I undertake to organize my 
school in that way ? " 

Ger. "If it is far away, I will not go with you." 

Lieut. "I shall remain here." 

Ger. "And keep school?" 

Lieut. "Yes." 

Ger. " Here in the room ? " 

Lieut. "No; in the schoolroom." 

Ger. "You would be sorry if you should be taken at your 
word." 

Lieut. " But 3^ou still more if you should have to help me." 

Ger. " I will help you— and 1 say so three times, if you are our 
schoolmaster." 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 83 

Here he and the other gentlemen began to laugh; and the 
squire said, "Yes, Gertrude; he is certainly your school- 
master." 

This perplexed her. She blushed and did not know what to 
say. 

'Lieut. " What makes you so silent? " 

Ger. " I think it would have been well if 1 had been silent for 
a quarter of an hour back." 

Lieut. "Why?" 

Ger. "How can I help you, if you are a schoolmaster?" 

Lieut. "You are looking for excuses ; but I shall not let you 
go." 

Ger. "I beg of you." 

Lieut. "It will be of no use; if you had promised to marry 
me, you must abide by the promise." 

Ger. "No, indeed!" 

Lieut. " Yes, indeed ! " 

Ger, "It is out of the question." 

Squire. "If there is anything which you know, Gertrude, do 
it as well as you can ; he will not ask anything more ; but, what- 
ever you do to help him, you will do to help me." 

Ger. "I will, very willingly; but you see my room full of 
children, and how I am tied down. But with regard to advice 
and help in matters relating to work which a gentleman natu- 
rally cannot understand, I know a woman who understands 
them much better than I; and she can do whatever I cannot." 

Squire. "Arrange it as you can; but give him your hand on 
the bargain." 

IV.— A PROUD SCHOOLMASTER. 

The new condition of affairs raised the courage of the pastor, 
who had been almost in the state of a slave under the old squire, 
and his acquaintance with the son contributed much toward 
accomplishing his ancient plans. On the next Sunday he 
explained to the people some chapters of the Bible, and, at the 
end of the service, called for whatever else was to be done. Then 



84 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

the squire took the lieutenant by the hand, and told him to say 
himself to the congregation what he desired to do for their 
children. 

The lieutenant arose, bowed to the squire, the pastor, and the 
congregation, took off his hat, leaned on his stick, and said: "I 
have been brought up with a nobleman, and am myself a noble- 
man; but I am not for that reason ashamed to serve God and 
my fellow-men in the situation to which Providence calls me; 
and I thank my dear parents, now under the ground, for the 
good education they gave me, and which enables me now to put 
your school on such a footing that, if God will, your children shall 
all their lives be respected for having attended it. But it is not 
my business to make long speeches and sermons; but if it please 
God, I will begin my school instruction to-morrow, and then 
everything will be made plain. Only, I should say that each 
child should bring his work, whether sewing or spinning cotton, 
or w^hatever it be, and the instruments for the same, until the 
squire shall purchase such for the school." 

''And what will he do with spinning-wheels in the school?" 
said men and women to each other in all their seats, and one, 
behind him, so loud that he heard it. 

The lieutenant turned around, and said aloud, "Nothing, 
except to make the children learn from one another how to read 
and cipher." 

This the farmers could not get into their heads, how the 
scholars could learn from one another how to read and cipher; 
and many of them said at the church door, '' It will be with him 
as it was with the madder plants, and the beautiful sheep that 
the old squire had brought from two hundred leagues away, and 
then let them die miserably at their fodder." But some older and 
experienced men said, "He does not look at all like the madder 
plants ; and has not the appearance of a man that talks care- 
lessly." 

That evening the schoolmaster went into the schoolroom and 
nailed up, immediately opposite where he was going to sit, a 
beautiful engraving. This represented an old man, with a long 



JOEANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZI. 85 

white beard, who, with wrinkled brow and eyes wide open, lifted 
up his finger. 

The squire and the pastor said, "What is that for?" 

Lieut. <' He is to say to me, ' Gllilphi, swear not, while you sit 
there before me.'" 

They replied, "Then we will not pull him down; he fills too 
important a place." 

Lieut. " I have been considering about it." 

v.— SCHOOL ORGANIZATION. 

Next morning the lieutenant began with his school. But I 
should not. readily recommend any other schoolmaster to do 
what he did, and, after such a Sunday's proclamation, which was 
considered proud by everybody, to cause his school to be put in 
order by a farmer's wife. Still, if he be a Gliilphi, he may do it, 
and it will not injure him ; but I mean a real Gliilphi, not a pre- 
tended one. 

He let Gertrude put the children in order, just as if she had 
them at home. 

She divided them according to age and the work they had, 
as they could best be put together, and placed her own and 
Budi's children, who were already accustomed to her manage- 
ment, between others. In front, next to the table, she put those 
who did not know their A, B, C; next behind them, those who 
were to spell, then those who could read a little, and last those 
who could read fluently. Then, she put only three letters on the 
blackboard, and taught them to the first row. Whoever knew 
them best was to name them aloud, and the others were to repeat 
them after him. Then she changed the order of the letters, wrote 
them larger and smaller, and so left them before their eyes, all 
the morning. In like manner she wrote several letters for the 
scholars who were learning to spell, and those who could read a 
little had to spell with these letters. But these, as well as those 
who could read fluently, were to have their books always open 
by their spinning-wheels, and to repeat in a low tone of voice 



86 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

after one who read aloud. And every moment they were saying 
to that one " Go on." 

For the work, Gertrude had brought a woman with her named 
Margaret, who was to come to the school every day, as Gertrude 
had no time for that purpose. 

This Margaret understood her business so well, that it would 
not be easy to find another like her. As soon as any child's hand 
or wheel was still she stepped up to him, and did not leave him 
until all was going on in good order again. 

Most of the children carried home that evening so much work 
that their mothers did not believe they had done it alone. But 
many of the children answered, "Yes; it makes a difference 
whether Margaret shows us or you." And in like manner they 
praised the lieutenant, their schoolmaster. 

, In the afternoon he conducted the school, and Gertrude 
watched him, as he had her in the morning; and things went on 
so well that she said to him, " If I had known that I could finish 
all my work in helping you organize a school in a couple of 
hours, I should not have been so troubled on Thursday." 

And he was himself pleased that things went so well. 

That evening he gave to each of the children over seven years 
of age two pieces of paper, stitched together, and a couple of pens ; 
and each child found his name written on the paper as beautifully 
as print. They could not look at it enough ; and one after another 
asked him how it was to be used. He showed them, and wrote for 
them, for a quarter of an hour, such great letters that they looked 
as if they were printed. They would have watched him until morn- 
ing, it seemed so beautiful to them, and they kept asking him if 
they were to learn to do the same. 

He answered, " The better you learn to write the better I shall 
be pleased." 

At dismissal he told them to take care of their paper, and to 
stick the points of their pens into rotten apples, for that was the 
very best way to keep them. 

To this many of the children answered, *' Yes, that would be 
nice, if we had any rotten apples; but it is winter now." 



JOHAXN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 87 

At this he laughed, and said, " If you have none, perhaps I can 
get them for you. The pastor's wife has certainly more than she 
wants." 

But other children said, "No, no; we will get some, we have 
some yet." . 

yi._ SCHOOL ORGANIZATION. — [Continued.) 

The children all ran home, in order quickly to show their 
beautiful writing to their parents ; and they praised the school- 
master and Margaret as much as they could. But many an- 
swered, "Yes, yes; new brooms sweep clean;" or some such 
singular expression, so that the children did not understand 
what they meant. This troubled the children, but still they 
did not cease to be pleased; and if their parents took no pleas- 
ure in their beautiful writing, they showed it to whomever they 
could, to their little brothers in the cradle and to the cat on 
the table, and took such care of it as they never in their lives 
had taken of anything before. And if the little brother reached 
out his hand, or the cat its paw, after it, they quicklj^ drew 
it back, and said, "You must only look at it with your 
ej'es; not touch it." Some of them put theirs away in the 
Bible. Others said they could not open such a big book, and 
put it in a chest among the most precious things they had. 
Their joy at going to school again was so great that the next 
morning many of them got up almost before day, and called 
their mothers to get them something to eat, so that they might 
get to school in good season. 

On Friday, when the new writing benches, which the squire 
had had made, were ready, their pleasure was very great. 
During the first lesson, they would all sit together; but the 
lieutenant divided them into four classes, in order that there 
should not be too many of them, and that none should escape 
him, and none could make a single mark that he did not see. 

In this study, also, most of the children did very well. Some 
learned so easily that it seemed to come to them by itself; and 
others, again, did well, because they had been more in the habit 



88 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

of doing things that required attention. Some, however, who 
had never had very much in their hands except the spoon with 
which they ate, found great difficulties. Some learned arithmetic 
very easily, who found writing very hard, and who held the pen 
as if their hands had been crippled. And there were some young 
loafers among them, who had all their lives scarcely done any- 
thing except run around the streets and fields, and who, never- 
theless, learned everything far quicker than the rest. 

So it' is in the world. The most worthless fellows have the 
best natural endowments, and usually exceed in intelligence and 
capacity those who do not wander about so much, but sit at 
home at their work. And the arithmeticians among the farmers 
are usually to be found at the tavern. 

The schoolmaster found these poor children generally much 
more capable, both in body and in mind, than he had expected. 

' For this there is also a good reason. Need and poverty make 
man more reflective and shrewd than riches and superfluity, and 
teach him to make the best use of everything that will bring him 
bread. 

Gllilphi made so much use of this fact that, in everything he 
did, and in almost every word he used in the school, he had the 
distinct purpose of making use of this basis laid down by Nature 
herself for the education of the poor and the countrymen. He 
was so strenuous even about the sweat of daily labor, that he 
claimed that whatever can be done for a man makes him useful, 
or reliable for skill, only so far as he has acquired his knowledge 
and skill in the sweat of his years of study ; and that, where this 
is wanting, the art and knowledge of a man is like a mass of 
foam in the sea, which often looks, at a distance, like a rock ris- 
ing out of the abyss, but which falls as soon as wind and wave 
attack it. Therefore, he said, in education, thorough and strict 
training to the vocation must necessarily precede all instruction 
by words. 

He also maintained a close connection between this training to 
a vocation and training in manners, and asserted that the man- 
ners of every condition and trade, and even of the place or coun- 



JOE ANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 89 

try of a man's abode, are so important to him that the happiness 
and peace of all his life depends on them. Training to good man- 
ners was also a chief object of his school organization. He would 
have his schoolroom as clean as a church. He would not even 
let a pane be out of the windows, nor a nail be wrongly driven in 
the floor; and still less would he permit the children to throw 
anything on the floor, eat during study, or anything else of the 
kind. He preserved strict order, even in the least thing; and 
arranged so that, even in sitting down and rising up, the children 
would not hit against one another. 

In muddy weather they were made to leave their shoes at the 
door, and sit in their stockings. And if their coats were muddy, 
they had to dry them in the sun or at the stove, as the case 
might be, and clean them. He himself cut their nails for many 
of them, and put the hair of most all the boys in good order; 
and whenever any one went from writing to working, he was 
obhged to wash his hands. They had, likewise, to rinse out 
their mouths at proper times, and take care of their teeth, and 
see that their breath was not foul. All these were things they 
had known nothing about. 

When they came into the school and went out, they stepped 
up to Gliilphi, one after the other, and said to him, ^' God be with 
you." Then he looked at them from head to foot, and looked at 
them so that they knew by his eye, without his saying a word, if 
there was anything wrong about them. But if this look did not 
serve to set things right, he spoke to them. When he saw that 
the parents were to blame for anything, he sent a message to 
them; and not uncommonly a child came home to its mother 
with the message, " The schoolmaster sends his respects to you, 
and asks whether you have no needles, or no thread ; or if water 
is expensive with you," and the like. 

Margaret acted as though she had been made on purpose to 
help him about these things. If a child's hair was not in good 
order, she placed it with its spinning wheel before her and braided 
it up while the child worked and studied. Most of them did not 
know how to fasten their shoes and stockings. All these things 



90 . THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

she showed them; adjusted their neckcloths and their aprons, if 
they were wrong, and, if she saw a hole in their clothes, took a 
needle and thread and mended it. Just before the close of the 
school, she went through the room, praising or blaming the chil- 
dren, as they had worked well, half well, or ill. Those who had 
done well went first up to the schoolmaster, and said to him 
" God be with you," and he then held out his hand to them and 
replied, "God be with you, my dear child!" Those who had 
done only half well came then to him, and to them he said, " God 
be with you," without holding out his hand to them. Lastly, 
those who had not done well at all had to leave the room before 
the others, without daring to go to him at all. 

If one of them came too late, he found the door shut like the 
gate of a fortress that is closed. Whether then he cried or not 
made no difference; the master said to him, briefly, "Go home 
again, now; it will do you good to think a long time about it. 
Everything that is done must be done at the right time, or else it 
is as if it is not done at all." 



IX.— HE WHO SEPARATES THE PRINCIPLES OF ARITHMETIC AND OF SUS- 
CEPTIBILITY TO TRUTH, PUTS ASUNDER WHAT GOD HAS JOINED. 

But how much soever he cared for the hearts of his children, he 
took as much care of their heads; and required that whatever 
went into them should be as clear and lucid as the silent moon in 
the heavens. He said, "Nothing can be called teaching which 
does not proceed on that principle; what is obscure, and deceives, 
and makes confused, is not teaching, but perverting the mind." 

This perversion of the mind in his children, he guarded against 
by teaching them, above all, to see and hear closely, and by 
laboriously and industriously teaching them habits of cool 
observation, and at the same time by strengthening in them 
the natural capacity which every man possesses. To this end he 
gave them much practice in arithmetic, in which he carried them 
so far, within a year, that they very soon yawned if any one 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZL 91 

began to talk to them about the wonderful puzzles with which 
Hartknopf's friends so easily astonished the rest of the people of 
the village. 

So true it is that the way to lead men away from error is not 
to oppose their folly with words, but to destroy the spirit of it 
within them ! To describe the night and the dark colors of its 
shadows does not help you to see; it is only by lighting a lamp 
that you can show what the night was; it is only by couching a 
cataract that you can show what the blindness has been. Correct 
seeing and correct hearing are the first steps towards living 
wisely ; and arithmetic is the means by which nature guards us 
from error in our searches after truth — the basis of peace and 
prosperity, which children can secure for their manhood only by 
thoughtful and careful pursuit of their employments. 

For such reasons, the lieutenant thought nothing so impor- 
tant as a right training of his children in arithmetic; and he 
said: "A man's mind will not proceed well unless it gains the 
habitude of apprehending and adhering to the truth, either by 
means of much experience or of arithmetical practice, which will 
in great part supply the place of that habitude." 

But his methods of teaching them arithmetic are too extended 
to be given here. 

X.— A SURE MEANS AGAINST MEAN AND LYING SLANDEES. 

In this matter also he succeeded with the children as he desired; 
and it.could not but happen that one who accomplished so much 
for them should become dear to many people. But it was far 
from being the case that all were satisfied with him. The chief 
charge against him was, that he was too proud for a schoolmas- 
ter, and would not talk with the people at all. He said one thing 
and another to defend himself, and tried to make them under- 
stand that he was using his time and his lungs for the children ; 
but the farmers said that, notwithstanding all that, he might 
stop a moment or two when anyone wanted to say something to 
him, and, if pride did not prevent him, he would. 

All the children, to be sure, contradicted their parents in this, 



92 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and said that he certainly was not proud ; but they replied : " He 
may be good to you, and may be proud, nevertheless." 

But the rainy weather, in the third week of his school-keeping, 
accomplished for him what the good children could not do, with 
all their talking. 

It was an established principle in Bonnal, that an old bridge 
in front of the schoolhouse, which had been in a bad condition 
for twenty years, should not be rebuilt; and so, whenever it 
rained for two days together, the children had to get wetted 
almost to their knees to get to the school. But the first time 
that Gliilphi found the street so deep in water he stood out in the 
street, in the rain, as soon as the children came, and lifted them, 
one after another, over the stream. 

This looked very funny to a couple of men and their wives 
who lived just opposite the schoolhouse, and who were the very 
oives who had complained most that the schoolmaster's pride 
would scarcely let him say good-day or good-night to people. 
They found great pleasure in seeing him get wet through and 
through, in his red coat, and thought he would never keep at.it 
a quarter of an hour, and expected every moment that he would 
call out to them to know whether nobody was coming to help 
him. But when he kept right on with his work, just as though 
not even a cat lived anywhere near him, to say nothing of a 
man, and was dripping wet, clothes and hair, and all over, and 
still showed no shadow of impatience, but kept carrying over 
one child after another, they began to say, behind their windows, 
" He must be a good-natured fool, after all, to keep it up so long, 
and we seem to have been mistaken about him. If he had been 
proud, he would certainly have stopped long ago." 

At last they crept out of their holes and went out to him, and 
said : '' We did not see, before, that you were taking so much 
trouble, or we would have come out to you sooner. Go home 
and dry yourself; we will carry the children over. We can bear 
the rain better than you. And, before school is out, we will bring 
a couple of planks, too, so that there shall be a bridge here, as 
there used to be." 



JOHANN EEINRICH PESTALOZZI. 93 

This they did not say merely, but did it. Before eleven 
o'clock there was actually a bridge erected, so that after school 
the scholars could go dry-shod over the brook. And also the 
complaints about his pride ceased; for the two neighbors' 
wives, who had been the loudest in making them, now sang 
quite another song. 

If this seems incredible to you, reader, make an experiment 
yourself, and stand out in the rain until you are dripping wet 
for the sake of other people's children, without being called on 
to do so, or receiving anything for it; and see if those people do 
not then willingly speak good of you, except in regard to some- 
thing very evil, or something which they cannot see and under- 
stand to be otherwise than bad. 



XL— FOOLISH WORDS, AND SCHOOL PUNISHMENTS. 

But it was not long before the people had something else to 
complain about, and, indeed, something worse than before. The 
Hartknopf party in the village, that is, discovered that the lieu- 
tenant was not a Christian, and began quietly to make good and 
simple people in the village believe it. One of the first to find 
comfort in this story, and to endeavor to propagate it, was the 
old schoolmaster. He could not endure the thought that all the 
children should so praise and love the new schoolmaster. As long 
as he had been schoolmaster they had hated him ; and he had 
become so used to this, in thirty years, that he believed it must 
be so; and asserted that the children, not being able to under- 
stand what is good for them, naturally hate all discipline, and 
consequently all schoolmasters. But he did not make much pro- 
gress with this theory ; and he fancied people were going to tell 
him that the children loved their present schoolmaster because 
he was good to them. 

This vexed him, for he could not endure all his life to have it 
flung at him that his own foolishness was the reason that the 
children did not love him, although it was the honest truth. If 
he observed the least thing which he disapproved, the first word 



94 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

was, " You are killing me, body and soul; you will bring me into 
my grave. If you did not deserve hell for any other reason, you 
deserve it on account of me," and the like. 

Such language, especially to children, does not cause good 
feeling; and they must have been much more than children to 
love a fool who spoke to them in that way at every moment. 
They knew whom they were dealing with, and when he was most 
enraged, they would say to each other, "When we kill again, and 
bring him some sausages and meat, we shall not go to hell any 
more, at least so long as he has any of them left to eat." 

With the new schoolmaster the case was quite otherwise. His 
harshest reproofs to the children when they did wTong were, 
" That is not right," or " You are injuring yourself," or " In that 
way you will never arrive at any good," etc. Little as this was, 
it was effectual, because it was the truth. 

' Gliilphi's punishments consisted mostly in exercises intended 
to help the faults which they were to punish. For instance, if 
a child was idle, he was made to carry stone for the guard-fence 
which the teacher was making some of the older boys construct, 
at the sand-meadow, or to cut firewood, etc. A forgetful one 
was made school-messenger, and for four or five days had to 
transact whatever business the teacher had in the village. 

Even during his punishments he was kind to the children, and 
scarcely ever talked more with them than while punishing them. 
"Is it not better for you," he would often say to a careless one, 
"to learn to keep yourself attentive to what you do, than every 
moment to be forgetting something, and then to have to do 
everything over again? " Then the child would often throw him- 
self upon him with tears, and, with his trembling hand in his, 
would reply, "Yes, dear schoolmaster." And he would then 
answer, " Good child. Don't cry, but learn better; and tell your 
father and mother to help you to overcome your carelessness, or 
your idleness." 

Disobedience which was not carelessness he punished by not 
speaking publicly to such a child for three or four or five days, but 
only alone with him, intimating to him at the close of school to 



JOHANN HEINRICH PESTALOZZl. 95 

remain. Impertinence and impropriety he punished in the same 
way. Wickedness, however, and lying, he punished with the rod; 
and any child punished with the rod was not permitted during a 
whole week to join in the children's plays ; and his name and his 
fault stood entered in the Register of Offences until he gave 
unmistakable evidence of improvement, when they were stricken 
out again. 

So great was the difference between the old and the new organ- 
ization of the school. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 

1731-1800. 

William Cowper, the best of English letter-writers and fche most 
distinguished poet of his day, was born in 1731, at Hertfordshire, Eng- 
land. His father was chaplain to George II. His mother, who was a 
lady of royal antecedents and of rare personal accomplishments, died 
when he was six years old. Although bereaved at this tender age, he 
retained the most affectionate remembrance of her, embalming her mem- 
ory in one of the most affectionate tributes that ever came from the 
heart of a son. He was placed at this time in Dr. Pitman's school, in 
his native village. His health was delicate, and he was in consequence 
exposed to the laughter and ridicule of his companions. One boy seemed 
especially to have been the object of his terror. " His savage treatment 
of me," he says, "impressed such a dread of his figure on my mind that 
I remember being afraid to lift my eyes higher than his knees, and that I 
knew him better by his shoe buckles than by any other part of his dress." 
Four years later he was installed as a pupil at Westminster School, and 
during the eight succeeding years he pursued his studies there, devoting 
much of his time to Latin and Greek. Among his fellow-students at 
Westminster were Warren Hastings, Churchill, Lloyd, Coleman, and 
others who later attained a place in history. At eighteen he was articled 
to a Mr. Chapman, an attorney in London, but he is said to have "most 
poeticallj"^ disliked his new position and duties," and gradually drifted 
from law to literature. While pursuing his law studies he fortunately 
formed the acquaintance of Thurlow, who subsequently became Chancel- 
lor, and he proved a valuable friend to him in after years. Born with a 
morbidly sensitive nature, every unpleasant experience in his early, and 
especially his school life, left a lasting impression upon his mind, and it 
is not strange that in his " Tirocinium " he arraigned the system of edu- 
cation which then prevailed with a vigor that has never been surpassed. 
In reference to the "Tirocinium,"* the author himself says: 

"In the poem on the subject of education, he [the author] would be 
very sorry to stand suspected of having aimed his censure at any par- 
ticular school. His objections are such as naturally apply themselves 
to schools in general. If there were not, as for the most part there is, 
willful neglect in those who manage them, and an omission even of such 

*Signifies militarv service. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 97 

discipline as they are susceptible of, the objects are yet too numerous 
for minute attention; and the aching hearts of ten thousand parents, 
mourning under the bitterest of disappointments, attest the truth of 
the allegation. His quarrel, therefore, is with the mischief at large, and 
not with any particular instance of it." 

CH AE ACTERIZATION . 

The nature of Cowper's works makes us peculiarly identify the poet 
and the man in perusing them. As an individual, he was retired and 
weaned from the vanities of the world ; and as an original writer, he left 
the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and passion for those of 
real life and simple nature, and for the development of his own earnest 
feelings in behalf of moral and religious truth. 

His language has such a masculine, idiomatic strength, and his 
manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into negligence, has so much 
plain and familiar freedom, that we read no poetry with a deeper con- 
viction of its sentiments having come from the author's heart; and of 
the enthusiasm in whatever he describes, having been unfeigned and 
unexaggerated. He impresses us with the idea of a being whose fine 
spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be 
polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an 
unworldly degree of purity and simplicity. Thomas Campbell. 



Tirocinium ; or, a Review of Schools. 

1785. 

To the Eev. William Cawthorne Unwin, rector of Stock in Es.sex, 
the tutor of his two sons, the following poem recommending private 
tuition in preference to an education at school, is inscribed by his affec- 
tionate friend. "William Cowper. 

Olnet, November 6th, 1784. 

It is not from his form, in which we trace 
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, 
That man, the master of this globe, derives 
His right of empire over all that lives. 
That form, indeed, the associate of a mind 
Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, 
That form, the labor of Almighty skill, 
Framed for the service of a freeborn will, 
T. p.— 7 



98 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, 
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. 
Hers is the state, the splendor and the throne, 
An intellectual kingdom, all her own. 
For her, the memory fills her ample page 
With truths pour'd down from every distant age, 
For her amasses an unbounded store, 
The wisdom of great nations now no more. 
Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil. 
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil, 
When copiously supplied then most enlarged. 
Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged. 
For her, the fancy, roving unconfined, 
The present Muse of every pensive mind. 
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue 
To nature's scenes than nature ever knew ; 
At her command winds rise and waters roar; 
Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; 
With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies. 
Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. 
For her, the judgment, umpire in the strife 
That grace and nature have to wage through life, 
Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, 
Appointed sage preceptor to the will. 
Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice, 
Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. 



Why did the fiat of a God give birth 
To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth? 
And when, descending, he resigns the skies, 
Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, 
Whom Ocean feels, through all his countless waves, 
And owns her power on every shore he laves? 
Why do the seasons still enrich the year. 
Fruitful and young as in their first career? 



WILLIAM COWPER. 99 

Spring hangs her mfant blossoms on the trees, 
Rocked in the cradle of the western breeze ; 
Summer in haste the thriving charge receives, 
i3eneath the shade of her expanded leaves, 
Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews 
Dye them at last in all their glowing hues. — 
'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste. 
Power misemploj^ed, munificence misplaced. 
Had not its Author dignified the plan, 
And crowned it with the majesty of man. 
Thus formed, thus placed, intelligent and taught. 
Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought. 
The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws 
Finds in a sober moment time to pause, 
To press the important question on his heart, 
^' Why form'd at all, and w^herefore as thou art?" 

If man be what he seems, this hour a slave. 
The next, mere dust and ashes in the grave ; 
Endued with reason only to descry 
His crimes and follies with an aching eye ; 
With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, 
The force he spends against their fury vain; 
And if, soon after having burned, by turns, 
With every lust with which frail Nature burns, 
His being end where death dissolves the bond, 
The tomb take all, and all be blank bej^ond ; 
Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth. 
Stands self-impeached the creature of least worth, 
And useless while he lives, and when he dies, 
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. 

Truths that the learned pursue with eager thought 
Are not important always as dear-bought, 
Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, 
A childish waste of philosophic pains ; 



100 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE, 

But truths on which depend our main concern. 

That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, 

Shine by the side of every path we tread 

With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 

'Tis true, that if to trifle life away 

Down to the sunset of their latest day, 

Then perish on futurity's wide shore 

.Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, 

Were all that Heaven required of human kind. 

And all the plan their destiny designed, 

What none could reverence all might justly blame. 

And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame. 

But reason heard, and nature well perused, 

At once the dreaming mind is disabused. 

If all we find possessing earth, sea, air. 

Reflect his attributes who placed them there. 

Fulfill the purpose, and appear designed 

Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing Mind, 

'Tis plain, the creature whom he chose to invest 

With kingship and dominion o'er the rest 

Received his nobler nature, and was made 

Fit for the power in ^vhich he stands array 'd. 

That, first or last, hereafter, if not here, 

He too might make his Author's wisdom clear, 

Praise him on earth or, obstinately duml). 

Suffer his justice in a world to come. 

This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied 

To prove a consequence by none denied, 

That we are bound to cast the minds of youth 

Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth. 

That taught of God they may indeed be wise, 

Nor, ignorantly w^andering, miss the skies. 



In early days the conscience has, in most, 
A quickness, which in later life is lost. 



WILLIAM COWFER. 101 

Preserved from guilt by salutar}^ fears, 

Or, guilty, soon relenting into tears, 

Too careless, often, as our years proceed. 

What friends we sort with, or what books we read, 

Our parents yet exert a prudent care 

To feed our infant minds with proper fare, 

And wisely store the nursery by degrees 

With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease. 

Neatly secured from being soiled or torn 

Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, 

A book (to please us at a tender age 

'Tis called a book, though but a single page) 

Presents the prayer the Savior deigned to teach, 

Which children use, and parsons — when they preach. 

Lisping our syllables, we scramble next 

Through moral narrative, or sacred text. 

And learn with wonder how this world began, 

Who made, who marred, and who has ransomed man; 

Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain, 

The wisest heads might agitate in vain. 

O thou,* whom, borne on Fancy's eager wing 
Back to the season of life's happy spring, 
I pleased remember, and, while memory yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; 
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; 
Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, 
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile, 
Witty, and well-employed, and like thy Lord, 
Speaking in parables his slighted word, 
I name thee not, lest so despised a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame ; 
Yet e'en in transitory life's late day. 
That mingles all my brown with sober gray, 

* John Bunyan. 



102 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road. 
And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 
'Twere well with most, if books that could engage 
Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age; 
The man, approving what had charmed the boy. 
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy. 
And not with curses on his art who stole 
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 



Would you your son should be a sot or dunce. 
Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once; 
That in good time, the stripling's finished taste 
For loose expense and fashionable waste 
Should prove your ruin, and his own at last, 
Train him in public with a mob of boys, 
Childish in mischief only and in noise, 
Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten 
In infidelity and lewdness, men. 
There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, 
That authors are most useful pawned or sold; 
That pedantry is all that schools impart. 
But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; 
There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays, 
Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise. 
His counsellor and bosom-friend shall prove. 



Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong, 
Detain their adolescent charge too long ; 
The management of tyros of eighteen 
Is difficult, their punishment obscene. 
The stout, tall captain, whose superior size 
The minor heroes view with envious eyes. 
Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix 
Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 103 

His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit, 
With them is courage ; his effrontery, wit ; 
His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, 
Eobbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets. 
His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes, 
Transport them, and are made their favorite themes; 
In little bosoms such achievements strike 
A kindred spark, they burn to do the like. 
Thus, half accomplished ere he yet begin 
To show the peeping down upon his chin, 
And as maturity of years comes on, 
Made just the adept that you designed your son, 
To insure the perseverance of his course. 
And give your monstrous project all its force. 
Send him to college. If he there be tamed, 
Or in one article of vice reclaimed. 
Where no regard of ordinance is shown, 
Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. 
Some sneaking virtue lurks in him, no doubt, 

nor drinking-bout. 
Nor gambling practices can find it out. 

Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too. 

Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you. 

Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, 

For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. 

The slaves of custom and establish'd mode, 

With pack-horse constancy we keep the road 

Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells. 

True to the jingling of our leader's bells. 

To follow foolish precedents, and wink 

With both our eyes, is easier than to think. 

And such an age as ours balks no expense 

Except of caution and of common sense; 

Else, sure, notorious fact and proof so plain 

Would turn our steps into a wiser train. 



104 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

I blame not those who with what care they can 

O'erw^atch the numerous and unruly clan, 

Or if I blame, 'tis only that they dare 

Promise a work of which they must despair. 

Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole. 

An ubiquarian presence and control, 

Elisha's eye, that when Gehazi stray 'd 

Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd ? 

Yes, ye are conscious; and on all the shelves 

Your pupils strike upon, have struck yourselves. 

Or if by nature sober, ye had then, 

Boys as ye were, the gravity of men. 

Y^e knew at least, by constant proofs address'd 

To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. 

But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, 

And evils not to be endured, endure, 

Lest power exerted, but without success. 

Should make the little ye retain still less. 

Ye once were justly famed for bringing forth 

Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth, 

And in the firmament of fame still shines 

A glory bright as that of all the signs,- 

Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines. 

Peace to them all ! those brilliant times are fled, 

And no such lights are kindling in their stead. 

Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays 

As set the midnight riot in a blaze. 

And seem, if judged by their expressive looks. 

Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. 

Say, Muse (for education made the song, 
No Muse can hesitate or linger long). 
What causes move us, knowing, as we must, 
That these menageries all fail their trust, 
To send our sons to scout and scamper there. 
While colts and puppies cost us so much care ? 



WILLIAM COWPER. 105 

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, 

We love the play-place of our early days. 

The scene is touching;, and the heart is stone 

That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 

The wall on which we tried our graving skill, 

The very name we carved subsisting still ; 

The bench on which we sat while deep employed, 

Though mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet destroyed; 

The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot, 

Playing our games, and on the very spot. 

As happy as we once, to kneel and draw 

The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw ; 

To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 

Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat; 

The pleasing spectacle at once excites 

Such recollection of our own delights, 

That viewing it we seem almost to obtain 

Our innocent sweet simple years again. 

This fond attachment to the well-known place, 

Whence first we started into life's long race, 

Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway. 

We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. 

Hark ! how the sire of chits, whose future share 

Of classic food begins to be his care, 

With his own likeness placed on either knee. 

Indulges all a father's heart-felt glee, 

And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks, 

That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; 

Then, turning, he regales his listening wife 

With all the adventures of his early life ; 

His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, 

In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays; 

What shifts he used, detected in a scrape. 

How he was flogged, or had the luck to escape; 

W^hat sums he lost at play, and how he sold 

Watch, seals, and all— till all his pranks are told. 



« 
106 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Ketracing thus his frolics ('tis a name 

That palliates deeds of folly and of shame), 

He gives the local bias all its sway, 

Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play, 

And destines their bright genius to be shown 

Just in the scene where he display'd his own. 

The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught 

To be as bold and forward as he ought; 

The rude will scuffle through with ease enough. 

Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. 

Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, 

The event is sure, expect it and rejoice! 

Soon see your wish fulfilled in either child, 

The pert made perter, and the tame made wild. 



Our public hives of puerile resort 
That are of chief and most approved report. 
To such base hopes in many a sordid soul 
Owe their repute in part, but not the w^hole. 
A principle whose proud pretensions pass 
Unquestion'd though the jeAvel be but glass — 
That with a world not often over-nice 
Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice, 
Or rather a gross compound, Justly tried. 
Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride — 
Contributes most perhaps to enhance their fame, 
And emulation is its specious name. 
Boys once on fire with that contentious zeal 
Feel all the rage that female rivals feel, 
The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes. 
Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. 
The spirit of that competition burns 
With all varieties of ill by turns. 
Each vainly magnifies his own success. 
Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 107 

Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, 
Deems his reward too great if he prevail, 
And labors to surpass him day and night, 
Less for improvement than to tickle spite. 
The spur is powerful, and I grant its force; 
It pricks the genius forward in its course. 
Allows short time for play, and none for sloth, 
And, felt alike by each, advances both. 
But judge where so much evil intervenes. 
The end, though plausible, not worth the means. 
Weigh, for a moment, classical desert 
Against a heart depraved and temper hurt, 
Hurt, too, perhaps for life, for early wrong 
Done to the nobler part affects it long ; 
And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause 
If you can crown a discipline that draws 
Such mischiefs after it with much applause. 

Connection formed for interest, and endeared 
By selfish views, thus censured and cashiered; 
And Emulation, as engendering hate. 
Doomed to a no less ignominious fate : 
The props of such proud seminaries fall, 
The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. 
Great schools rejected, then, as those that swell 
Be^^'ond a size that can be managed well, 
Shall royal institutions miss the bays. 
And small academies win all the praise? 

Force not my drift beyond its just intent, 
I praise a school as Pope a government; 
So take my judgment in his language dressed, . 
'' Whate'er is best administered is best." 
Few boys are born with talents that excel, 
But all are capable of living well. 



108 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Then ask not, whether limited or large? 

But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge? 

If anxious only that their boys may learn. 

While morals languish, a despised concern. 

The great and small deserve one common blame, 

Different in size but in effect the same. 

Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, 

Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; 

Therefore in towns and cities they abound, 

For there the game they seek is easiest found ; 

Though there, in spite of all that care can do, 

Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. 

If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain. 

Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, 

Your son come forth a prodigy of skill. 

As wheresoever taught, so formed, he will. 

The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, 

Claims more than half the praise as his due share; 

But if, with all his genius, he betray, 

Not more intelligent than loose and gay. 

Such vicious habits as disgrace his name, 

Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame. 

Though want of due restraint alone have bred 

The symptoms that you see with so much dread, 

Unenvied there, he may sustain alone 

The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. 

Oh ! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused 
By all whom sentiment has not abused. 
New-fangled sentiment, the boasted grace 
Of those who never feel in the right place, 
A sight surpassed by none that we can show, 
Though Vestris on one leg still shine below, 
A father blest with an ingenuous son, 
Father and friend and tutor all in one. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 109 

How ? Turn again to tales long: since forgot, 

iEsop and Phgedrus and the rest? — Why not? 

He will not blush that has a father's heart, 

To take in childish plays a childish part. 

But bends his sturdy back to any toy 

That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy ; 

Then why resign into a stranger's hand 

A task as much within your own command, 

That God and nature and your interest too 

Seem with one voice to delegate to you ? 

Why hire a lodging in a house unknown 

For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your 

own? 
This second weaning, needless as it is, 
How does it lacerate both your heart and his! 
The indented stick that loses day by day 
Notch after notch, till all are smoothed away, 
Bears witness long ere his dismission come, 
With what intense desire he wants his home. 
But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof 
Bid fair enough to answer in the proof, 
Harmless and safe and natural as they are, 
A disappointment waits him even there : 
Arrived he feels an unexpected change. 
He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, 
No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease 
His favorite stand between his father's knees, 
But seeks the corner of some distant seat. 
And eyes the door, and watches a retreat. 
And, least familiar where he should be most, 
Feels all his happiest privileges los^. 
Alas, poor boy ! — the natural effect 
Of love by absence chilled into respect. 
Say, what accomplishments at school acquired 
Brings he to sweeten fruits so undesired ? 



110 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Thou well deservest an alienated son, 

Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge — none; 

None that in thy domestic snug recess, 

He had not made his own with more address, 

Though some perhaps that shock thy feeling mind, 

And better never learn'd, or left behind. 

Add too, that thus estranged thou canst obtain 

By no kind arts his confidence again, •• 

That here begins with most that long complaint 

Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint. 

Which, oft neglected in life's waning years, 

A parent pours into regardless ears. 

Like caterpillars dangling under trees 
By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, 
Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace 
The boughs in which are bred the unseemly race, 
While every worm industriously weaves 
And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves; 
So numerous are the follies that annoy 
The mind and heart of every sprightly boy, 
Imaginations noxious and perverse, 
Which admonition can alone disperse. 
The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand, 
Patient, affectionate, of high command, 
To check the procreation of a breed 
Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 

' Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page 
At stated hours his freakish thoughts engage. 
E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend 
To warn, and teach him safel^^ to unbend, 
O'er all his pleasures gently to preside. 
Watch his emotions and control their tide, 
And levying thus, and with an easy sway, 
A tax of profit from his very play, 



WILLIAM COWPER. Ill 

To impress a value, not to be erased, 

On moments squandered else, and running all to waste. 

And seems it nothing in a father's eye 

That unimproved those many moments fly? 

And is he well content his son should find 

No nourishment to feed his growing mind, 

But conjugated verbs, and nouns declined? 

For such is all the mental food purveyed 

By public hackneys in the schoohng trade; 

Who feed a pupil's intellect with store 

Of syntax truly, but with little more, 

Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock, 

Machines themselves, and governed by a clock. 

Perhaps a father blessed with any brains 
Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains, 
To improve this diet, at no great expense, 
With savory truth and wholesome common sense; 
To lead his son for prospects of delight, 
To some not steep, though philosophic, height, 
Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes 
Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size, 
The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, 
And the harmonious order of them all ; 
To show him in an insect or a flower, 
Such microscopic proof of skill and power, 
As, hid from ages past, God now displays 
To combat atheists with in modern days; 
To spread the earth before him and commend, 
With designation of the finger's end, 
Its various parts to his attentive note. 
Thus bringing home to him the most remote; 
To teach his heart to glow with generous flame. 
Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; 
And more than all, with commendation due, 
To set some living worthy in his view, 



112 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Whose fair example may at once inspire 

A wish to copy what he must admire. 

Such knowledge, gained betimes, and which appears, 

Though solid, not too weighty for his years, 

Sweet in itself, and not forbidding sport, 

When health demands it, of athletic sort, 

Would make him what some lovely boys have been, 

And more than one perhaps that I have seen, 

An evidence and reprehension both 

Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. 



Art thou a man professionally tied, 
With all thy faculties elsewhere applied. 
Too busy to intend a meaner care 
Than how to enrich thyself and next, thine heir; 
Or art thou (as though rich, perhaps thou art) 
But poor in knowledge, having none to impart, — 
Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad. 
His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad. 
Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then 
Heard to articulate like other men. 
No Jester, and yet lively in discourse, 
His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force, 
And his address, if not quite French in ease, 
Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please. 
Low in the world because he scorns its arts, 
A man of letters, manners, morals, parts, 
Unpatronized, and therefore little known. 
Wise for himself and his few friends alone. 
In him, thy well-appointed proxy see. 
Armed for a, work too diflficult for thee. 
Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth, 
To form thy son, to strike his genius forth, 
Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye to prove 
The force of discipline w^hen back'd by love 



WILLIAM COWPER. 113 

To double all thy pleasure in thy child, 
His mind informed, his morals undefiled. 
Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show 
No spots contracted among grooms below, 
Nor taint his speech with meannesses design'd 
By footman Tom for witty and refined. 
There,— in his commerce with the liveried herd 
Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd. 

To you, then, tenants of life's middle state, 
Securely placed between the small and great. 
Whose character, yet undebauched, retains 
Two thirds of all the virtue that remains, 
Who, wise yourselves, desire your sons should learn 
Your wisdom and your ways— to you I turn. 
Look round you on a world perversely blind : 
See what contempt is fallen on humankind ; 
See wealth abused, and dignities misplaced. 
Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced, 
Long lines of ancestry, renowned of old, 
Their noble qualities all quenched and cold ; 
See Bedlam's closeted and handcuffed charge 
Surpassed in frenzy by the mad at large ; 
See great commanders making war a trade, . ' 

Great lawyers, lawyers without study made; 
Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ 
Is odious, and their wages all their joy. 
Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves 
With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves; 
See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed 
With infamy too nauseous to be named. 
Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien, 
Civeted fellows, smelt ere they are seen, 
Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue 
On fire with curses and with nonsense hung. 

T. L.— 8 



114 THE TEACHER IN EITERATUKE. 

See volunteers in all the vilest arts 

Men well endowed, of honorable parts, 

Design'd by nature wise, but self-made fools; 

All these, and more like these, were bred at schools. 

And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will. 

That though school bred, the boy be virtuous still, 

Such rare exceptions shining in the dark. 

Prove rather than impeach the just remark, 

As here and there a twinkling star descried 

Serves but to show how black is all beside. 

Now look on him whose very voice in tone 

Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own, 

And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red. 

And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head, 

And say, — " My boy, the unw^elcome hour is come, 

When thou, transplanted from thy genial home. 

Must find a colder soil and bleaker air, 

And trust for safety to a stranger's care. 

What character, what turn thou wilt assume 

From constant converse with I know not whom ; 

Who there will court thy friendship, with what views, 

And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose; 

Though much depends on what thy choice shall be. 

Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.*' 

Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids. 

And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids ; 

Free, too, and under no constraining force. 

Unless the sway of custom warp thy course; 

Lay such a stake upon the losing side, 

Merely to gratify so blind a guide? 

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart. 

Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part. 

Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea, 

Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea. 

Nor say,—'- Go thither; "—conscious that there lay 

A brood of asps, or quicksands, in his way; 



WILLIAM COWPER. 115 

Then, only gOYerned by the self-same rule 
Of natural pity, send him not to school. 

Xo ! — guard him better. Is he not thine own, 
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone? 
And hopest thou not ('tis every father's hope) 
That, since thy strength must with thy years elope. 
And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage 
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age, 
That then, in recompense of all thy cares, 
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs, 
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft. 
And give thy life its only cordial left? 
Aware, then, how much danger intervenes. 
To compass that good end, forecast the means. 
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command; 
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand. 
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide. 
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide. 
Complain not if attachments lewd and base 
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place. 
But if thou guard its sacred chambers sure 
From vicious inmates and delights impure. 
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, 
And keep him warm and filial to the last. 
Or if he prove unkind (as who can say 
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may). 
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, 
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. 

" Oh, barbarous ! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand 
Pull down the schools— what !— all the schools i' th' land? 
Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms? 
Or turn them into shops and auction rooms? " 
A captious question, sir (and yours is one). 
Deserves an answer similar, or none. 



116 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE, 

Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ 

(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy, 

And feed him well, and give him handsome pay. 

Merely to sleep, and let them run astray ? 

Survey our schools and colleges, and see 

A sight not much unlike my simile. 

From education, as the leading cause, 

The public character its color draws, 

Thence the prevailing manners take their cast. 

Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. 

And though I would not advertise them yet, 

Nor write on each — This Building to be Let, 

Unless the world were all prepared to embrace 

A plan well worthy to supply their place. 

Yet backward as they are, and long have been. 

To cultivate and keep the morals clean 

(Forgive the crime), I wish them, I confess. 

Or better managed, or encouraged less. 



The Sage Called "Discipline." 

(From "The Task.") 

In colleges and halls, in ancient days, 
When learning, virtue, piety and truth 
Were precious and inculcated with care. 
There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head 
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er. 
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, 
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. 
His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile 
Play'd on his lips, and in his speech was heard 
Paternal sweetness, dignity and love. 
The occupation dearest to his heart 
Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke 
The head of modest and ingenuous worth, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 117 

That blush'd at his own praise; and press the youth 

Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew, 

Beneath his care, a thriving vigorous plant ; 

The mind was well-inform'd, the passions held 

Subordinate, and diligence was choice. 

If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, 

That one among so many overleap 'd 

The limits of control, his gentle eye 

Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; 

His frown was full of terror, and his voice 

Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe 

As left him not till penitence had won 

Lost favor back again, and closed the breach. 

But Discipline, a faithful servant long, 

Declined at length into the vale of years ; 

A palsy struck his arm ; his sparkling eye 

Was quench'd in rheums of age, his voice, unstrung. 

Grew tremulous, and moved derision more 

Than reverence, in perverse rebellious youth. 

So colleges and halls neglected much 

Their good old friend, and Discipline, at length, 

O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick and died. 

Then study languish'd, emulation slept, 

And virtue fled. The schools became a scene 

Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts. 

His cap well lined with logic not his own, 

With parrot-tongue perform'd the scholar's part, 

Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. 

Then compromise had place, and scrutiny 

Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, 

And he was competent whose purse was so. 

A dissolution of all bonds ensued ; 

The curbs invented for the mulish mouth 

Of headstrong youth were broken ; bars and bolts 

Grew rusty hj disuse, and massy gates 



118 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Forgot their office, opening with a touch; 

Till gowns at length were found mere masquerade; 

The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, 

A mockery of the world. What need of these 

For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, 

Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen 

With belted waist and pointers at their heels, 

Than in the bounds of duty ? What was learn'd, 

If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot. 

And such expense as pinches parents blue, 

And mortifies the liberal hand of love. 

Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports 

And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name 

That sits a stigma on his father's house, 

And cleaves through life inseparably^ close 

To him that wears it. What can after-games 

Of riper joys, and commerce with the world. 

The lewd vain world that must receive him soon, 

Add to such erudition thus acquired 

Where science and where virtue are profess'd ? 

They may confirm his habits, rivet fast 

His folly, but to spoil him is a task 

That bids defiance to the united powers 

Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. 

Now blame we most the nurslings or the nurse? 

The children crook 'd and twdsted and deform 'd 

Through want of care, or her whose winking eye 

And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? 

The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, 

She needs herself correction ; needs to learn 

That it is dangerous sporting with the world. 

With things so sacred as a nation's trust. 

The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. 

All are not such. I had a brother, once, — 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 119 

A man of letters, and of manners, too ; 

Of manners sweet as virtue always wears, 

When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. 

He graced a college in which order yet 

Was sacred, and was honor'd, loved and wept 

By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 

Some minds are temper'd happily and mixed 

With such ingredients of good sense and taste 

Of what is excellent in man, they thirst 

With such a zeal to be what they approve, 

That no restraints can circumscribe them more 

Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. 

Nor can example hurt them, w^hat they see 

Of vice in others but enhancing more 

The charms of virtue in their just esteem. 

If such escape contagion, and emerge 

Pure from so foul a pool, to shine abroad. 

And give the world their talents and themselves, 

Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth 

Exposed their inexperience to the snare, 

And left them to an undirected choice. 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 

1749-1832. 

JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe, who was destined to be the first lit- 
erary man of his time, was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, August 28, 
1749, and he lived to the ripe old age of eighty- three. His death occurred 
at Weimar, Saxony, March 22, 1832. It might be said of him that he 
attended no school regularly, but the atmosphere by which he was sur- 
rounded gave him, perhaps, the best education he could have received. 
His home was a cultivated one, wdth all the embellishments of art and 
the fashion of German poetry which then prevailed. From his father he 
derived the steadfastness of character which enabled him to pursue an 
independent career of self -culture and devotion to art in the midst of 
every kind of distracting influence ; from his mother he inherited a joy- 
ous nature, a lively sympathy, a flow of language and a love of narration 
without which he could not have been a poet. Before the age of sixteen, 
he had seen every kind of life in a city particularly favorable to a rich- 
ness of individual character. At this time he traveled toLeipsic and was 
entered as a college student ; but when we remember that his three years 
at Leipsic, about which so much has been written, correspond with the 
last three years of our public school course, we can form some idea of the 
singular individuality of his character and the maturity and ripeness of 
his genius. Later on he went to Strasburg, and after a year in the uni- 
versity he received the degree of Doctor of Jurisprudence. He turned his 
attention to literature very early in life, and his first noted work, "Gotz 
von Verlichingen," was published in his twenty-fourth year. His greatest 
work, " Faust," was issued in jjart in 1805, but the second part was not 
published until a j^ear before his death. His " Wilhelm Meister Wander- 
jahre," from which the extracts have been made for this volume, not only 
illustrates the author's soft and pleasing style, but it possesses an addi- 
tional charm to the educator. 

"A beautiful death," says Thomas Carlyle, "like that of a soldier 
found faithful at his post, and in the cold hand his arms still grasped ! 
The poet's last w'ords are a greeting of the new-awakened earth ; his last 
movement is to work at his appointed task. Beautiful; what we might 
call a classic, sacred death, if it were not rather an Elijah-translation — in 
a chariot, not of fire and terror, but of hope and soft vernal sunbeams ! 
The unwearied workman now rests from his labors; the fruit of 
(120) 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 121 

these is left growing and to grow. His earthly years have been numbered, 
and are ended; but of his activity (for it stood rooted in the eternal) 
there is no end. All that we mean by the higher literature of Germany, 
which is the higher literature of Europe, already gathers round this man 
as its creator; of which gi-and object, dawning mysteriously on a world 
that hoped not for it, who is there that can measure the significance and 
far-reaching influences ? " 

CHAEACTERIZATIOX. 

The story of "AVilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre" is almost devoid of 
connected plot, and is used rather as a vehicle for a number of detached 
dissertations and apologues than as a presentation of character or an 
illustration of life. For this reason it has been made the subject of adverse 
criticism, and many of the independent sections have been valued less 
highly than would have been the case if they had been offered to the 
reader in a more artistic setting and more intelligible association. But 
the too evident want of coherence in the whole, and the defects for which 
the author more than once apologizes, do not deprive its contents of all 
value. The book has been severely criticised by Mr. G. H. Lewes, who 
speaks of its composition as "feeble*' and "careless," and cites a passage 
from Eckermann showing that the second edition was purposely made 
the receptacle of various odds and ends which very possibly would other- 
wise have remained unprinted. But even in the siftings of Goethe's work 
many grains of gold may be found ; and, apart from the separate inter- 
est of some of the detached pieces, there is sufficient purpose evident in 
the whole to give it a concrete value. The main design is apparently the 
promulgation of a system of education and social life, as set forth in the 
sections relating to the Pedagogic Province. Unpractical as this system 
may seem, it is not more so than plans which have been gravely pro- 
pounded and set afoot in our own day, and it is safe to predict that in 
generations to come there will be found educational reformers who may 
read with profit the description of Goethe's Pedagogic Utopia. 

Edward Bell. 



Selections from " Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre."* 

(Extract from a letter from Wilhelm Meister to Natalia, his 
wife, concerning his son Felix.) "I have to pass over many 
beautiful features of the common life of these virtuous and 



* Usually translated Travels, but it more directly signifies the time required by 
the German Artisan in perfecting the knowledge of his craft after finishing his 
apprenticeship. 



122 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

happy people; for how could eve»3^thing be written? A few 
days I have spent pleasantly, but the third already warns me 
to bethink me of my further travels. 

" To-day I had a little dispute with Felix, for he wanted almost 
to compel me to transgress one of the good intentions which I 
have promised you to keep. Now it is just a defect, a misfor- 
tune, a fatality with me, that, before I am aware of it, the com- 
pany increases around me, and I charge myself with a fresh 
burden, under which I afterwards have to toil and to drag myself 
along. Now, during my travels, we must have no third person 
as a constant companion. We wish and intend to be and to re- 
main two only, and it has but just now seemed as if a new, and 
not exactly pleasing, connection was likely to be formed. 

"A poor, merry little youngster had joined the children of the 
house, with whom Felix had been enjoying these days in play, 
who alloAved himself to be used or abused just as the game re- 
quired, and who very soon won the favor of Felix. From various 
expressions I noticed already that the latter had chosen a play- 
mate for the next journey. The boy is known here in the neigh- 
borhood ; he is tolerated everywhere on account of his merriness, 
and occasionally receives gratuities. But he did not please me, 
and I begged the master of the house to send him away. This 
was accordingly done, but Felix was vexed about it, and there 
was a little scene. 

'' On this occasion I made a discovery which pleased me. In 
a corner of the chapel, or hall, there stood a box of stones, 
which Felix — who since our wandering through the mountain 
had become exceedingly fond of stones — eagerlj^ pulled out and 
examined. Among them were some fine, striking specimens. 
Our host said that the child might pick out for himself any he 
liked ; that these stones were what remained over from a large 
quantity which a stranger had sent from here a short time 
before. He called him Montan,* and you can fancy how glad 
I was to hear this name, under which one of our best friends, 
to whom we owe so much, is traveling. As I inquired as to 

*Name assumed by Jarno in " Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship." 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VOX GOETHE. 123 

time and circumstances, I may hope soon to meet with him in 
my travels." 

The news that Montan was in the neighborhood had made 
Wilhelm thoughtful. He considered that it ought not to be left 
merely to chance whether he should see such a worthy friend 
again, and therefore he inquired of his host whether it was not 
known in what direction this traveler had bent his way. No 
one had any more exact knowledge of this, and Wilhelm had 
already determined to pursue his route according to the first 
plan, when Felix exclaimed, "If father were not so obstinate, we 
should soon find Montan." 

" In what manner? " asked Wilhelm. 

Felix answered: "Little Fitz said yesterday that he would 
most likely follow up the gentleman w^ho had the pretty stones 
with him, and knew so much about them too." 

After some discussion Wilhelm at last resolved to make the 
attempt, and in so doing to give all the more attention to the 
suspicious boy. He was soon found, and when he understood 
what was intended, he brought a mallet and iron, and a very 
powerful hammer, together with a bag, and, in this miner-like 
equipment, ran merrily in front. 

The road led sideways up the mountain again. The children 
ran leaping together from rock to rock, over stock and stone, 
and brook and stream, without following any direct path. Fitz, 
glancing now to his right and now to his left, pushed quickly up- 
wards. As Wilhelm, and particularly the loaded carrier, could 
not follow so quickly, the boys retraced the road several times 
forwards and backwards, singing and whistling. The forms of 
certain strange trees aroused the attention of Felix, who, more- 
over, now made for the first time the acquaintance of the larches 
and stone-pines, and was attracted by the w^onderful gentians. 
And thus the difficult traveling from place to place did not lack 
entertainment. 

Little Fitz suddenly stood still and listened. He beckoned to 
the others to come. 



124 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

'' Do you hear the knocking? " said he "It is the sound of a 
hammer striking the rock." 

" We hear it," said the others. 

'' It is Montan," said he, '' or some one who can give us news 
of him." 

As they followed the sound, which was repeated at intervals, 
they struck a clearing in the forest, and beheld a steep, lofty, 
naked rock, towering above everything, leaving even the tall 
forests deep under it. On the summit they descried a person. He 
stood at too great a distance to be recognized. The children at 
once commenced to clamber up the rugged paths. Wilhelm fol- 
lowed with some difficulty, nay, danger; for in ascending a rock, 
the first one goes more safely, because be feels his way for himself; 
the one that follows only sees where the former has got to, but 
not how. The boys soon reached the top, and Wilhelm heard a 
loud shout of joy. 

"It is Jarno ! " Felix called out to his father, and Jarno at 
once stepped forward to a steep place, reached his hand to his 
friend, and pulled him up to the top. They embraced and 
welcomed each other with rapture under the open canopy of 
heaven. 

The two friends, not without care and difficulty, had descended 
to join the children, who had settled themselves in a shady spot 
below. The mineral specimens collected by Montan and Felix 
were unpacked almost more eagerly than the provisions. The 
latter had many questions to ask, and the former many names 
to pronounce. Felix was delighted that he could tell him the 
names of them all, and committed them quickly to memory. At 
last he produced one more stone, and said, "What is this one 
called?" 

Montan examined it with astonishment, and said, " Where did 
you get it?" 

Fitz answered quickly, "I found it; it comes from this 
country." 

" It is not from this district," replied Montan. 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 125 

Felix enjoyed seeing the great man somewhat perplexed. 

"You shall have a ducat," said Montan, "if you take me to 
the place where it is found." 

" It will be easy to earn," replied Fitz, "but not at once." 

" Then describe to me the place exactly, so that I shall be able 
to find it without fail. But that is impossible, for it is a cross- 
stone, which comes from St. James of Compostella, and which 
some foreigner has lost, if indeed you have not stolen it from 
him, because it looks so wonderful." 

" Give your ducat to your friend to take care of," said Fitz, 
" and I will honestly confess where I got the stone. In the ruined 
church at St. Joseph's there is a ruined altar as well. Among 
the scattered and broken stones at the top I discovered a la3^er 
of this stone, which served as a bed for the others, and I knocked 
down as much of it as I could get hold of. If you only lifted 
away the upper stones, no doubt you would find a good deal 
more of it." 

" Take your gold piece," replied Mont an; "3"ou deserve it for 
this discovery. It is a pretty one. One justly rejoices when 
inanimate nature brings to light a semblance of what we love 
and venerate. She appears to us in the form of a sibyl, who 
sets down beforehand evidence of what has been predestined 
from eternity, but can only in the course of time become a 
reality. Upon this, as upon a miraculous, holy foundation, the 
priests had set their altar." 

Wilhelm, who had been listening for a time, and who had 
noticed that many names and many descriptions came over and 
over again, repeated his already expressed wish that Montan 
would tell him so much as he had need of for the elementary 
instruction of the boy. 

" Give that up," replied Montan. "There is nothing more 
terrible than a teacher who does not know more than the schol- 
ars at all events ought to know. He who wants to teach others 
may often indeed be silent about the best that he knows, but he 
must not be half instructed himself." 

" But w^here, then, are such perfect teachers to be found? " 



126 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

" You can find them very easily," replied Montan. 

" Where then? " said Wilhelm, with some incredulity. 

" Wherever the matter which you want to master is at home," 
replied Montan. " The best instruction is derived from the 
most complete environment. Do you not learn foreign lan- 
guages best in the countries where they are at home — where 
only those given ones and no others strike your ear ? " 

"And have you then," asked Wilhelm, "attained the knowl- 
edge of mountains in the midst of mountains? " 

" Of course." 

"Without conversing with people? " asked Wilhelm. 

"At least only with people," replied the other, "who were 
familiar with mountains. Wheresoever the Pygmies, attracted 
by the metalliferous veins, bore their way through the rock 
to make the interior of the earth accessible, and by every 
means try to solve problems of the greatest difficulty, there is 
the place where the thinker eager for knowledge ought to take 
up his station. He sees business, action; lets things follow their 
own course, and is glad at success and failure. What is useful 
is only a part of what is significant. To possess a subject com- 
pletely, to master it, one has to study the thing for its own sake. 
But whilst I am speaking of the highest and the last, to which 
we raise ourselves only late in the day by dint of frequent and 
fruitful observation, I see the boys before me; to them matters 
sound quite differently. The child might easily grasp every 
species of activity, because everything looks easy that is excel- 
lently performed. Every beginning is difficult! That may be 
true in a certain sense, but more generally one can say that the 
beginning of everything is easy, and the last stages are ascended 
with most difficulty and most rarely." 

Wilhelm, who in the meantime had been thinking, said to 
Montan, " Have you really adopted the persuasion that the col- 
lective forms of activity have to be separated in precept as well 
as in practice?" 

" I know no other or better plan," replied the former. " What- 
ever man would achieve, must loose itself from him like a second 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 127 

self; and how could that be possible if his first self were not 
entirely penetrated therewith? '' 

" But yet a many-sided culture has been held to be advanta- 
geous and necessary." 

"It maybe so, too, in its proper time," answered the other. 
''Many-sidedness prepares, in point of fact, only the element in 
which the one-sided man can work, who just at this time has 
room enough given him. Yes, now is the time for the one-sided ; 
well for him who comprehends it, and who works for himself and 
others in this mind. In certain things it is understood thor- 
oughly and at once. Practice till you are an able violinist, 
and be assured that the director will have pleasure in assigning 
you a place in the orchestra. Make an instrument of yourself, 
and wait and see what sort of place humanity will kindly grant 
you in universal life. Let us break off. Whoso will not believe, 
let him follow his own path; he too will succeed sometimes; but 
I say it is needful everywhere to serve from the ranks upwards. 
To limit oneself to a handicraft is the best. For the narrowest 
heads it is always a craft; for the better ones an art ; and the 
best, when he does one thing, does everything — or, to be less 
paradoxical, in the one thing, which he does rightly, he beholds 
the semblance of everything that is rightly done." 

This conversation, which we only reproduce sketchily, lasted 
until sunset, which, glorious as it was, yet led the company to 
consider where they would spend the night. 

"I should not know how to bring you under cover," said 
Fitz; " but if you care to sit or lie down for the night in a warm 
place at a good old charcoal burner's, you will be welcome." 

And so they all followed him through strange paths to a quiet 
spot, where anyone would soon have felt at home. 

In the midst of a narrow clearing in the forest there lay smok- 
ing and full of heat the round-roofed charcoal kilns, on one side 
the hut of pine boughs, and a bright fire close by. They sat 
down and made themselves comfortable; the children at once 
busy helping the charcoal burner's wife, who, with hospitable 
anxiety, was getting ready some slices of bread, toasted with 



128 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

butter so as to let them be filled and soaked with it, which 
afforded deliciously oily morsels to their hungry appetites. 

Presently , whilst the boys were playing at hide-and-seek among 
the dimly lighted pine stems, howling like wolves and barking 
like dogs, in such a way that even a courageous wayfarer might 
well have been frightened by it, the friends talked confidentially 
about their circumstances. 

But now, to the peculiar duties of the Renunciants appertained 
also this, that on meeting they must speak neither about the past 
nor the future, but only occup}^ themselves with the present. 

Jarno, who had his mind full of mining undertakings, and of 
all the knowledge and capabilities that they required, enthusias- 
tically explained to Wilhelm, with the utmost exactitude and 
thoroughness, all that he promised himself in both hemispheres 
from such knowledge and capacities; of which, however, his 
friend, who always sought for the true treasure in the human 
heart alone, could hardly form any idea, but rather answered at 
last with a laugh : 

"Thus you stand in contradiction with yourself, when begin- 
ning only in advanced years to meddle with what one ought to 
be instructed in from youth up." 

<'Not at all,'' replied the other, "for it is precisely this, that I 
was educated in my childhood at a kind uncle's, a mining officer 
of consequence, that I grew up with the miners' children, and 
with them used to swim little bark boats down the draining 
channel of the mine, that has led me back into this circle wherein 
I now feel myself again happy and contented. This charcoal 
smoke can hardly agree with you as with me, who from childhood 
up have been accustomed to swallow it as incense. I have essayed 
a great deal in the world, and always found the same: in habit 
lies the only satisfaction of man; even the unpleasant, to which 
we have accustomed ourselves, we miss with regret. I was once 
troubled a very long time with a wound that would not heal, 
and when at last I recovered, it was most unpleasant to me when 
the surgeon remained away and no longer dressed it, and no 
longer took breakfast with me." 



JOHANN WOLFGANG YON GOETHE. 129 

"But I should like, however,'' replied Wilhelm, "to impart to 
my son a freer survey of the world than any limited handicraft 
can give. Circumscribe man as you will, for all that he will at 
last look about himself in his time, and how can he understand 
it all, if he does not in some degree know what has preceded him? 
And would he not enter every grocer's shop with astonishment if 
he had no idea of the countries whence these indispensable rarities 
have come to him ? " 

"What does it matter?" replied Jarno; "let him read the 
newspapers like every Philistine, and drink coffee like every old 
woman. But still, if you cannot leave it alone, and are so bent 
upon perfect culture, I do not understand how you can be so 
blind, how you need search any longer, how you fail to see that 
you are in the immediate neighborhood of an excellent educa- 
tional institution." 

"In the neighborhood? " said Wilhelm, shaking his head. 

" Certainly ! " replied the other ; "what do you see here ? " 

"Where?" 

"Here, just before your nose! " Jarno stretched out his fore- 
finger, and exclaimed impatiently : "What is that ? " 

"Well then," said Wilhelm, "a charcoal kiln; but what has 
that to do with it? " 

"Good, at last! a charcoal kiln. How do they proceed to 
erect it?" 

" They place logs one on the top of the other." 

" When that is done, what happens next ? " 

"As it seems to me," said Wilhelm, "you want to pay me a 
compliment in Socratic fashion — to make me understand, to 
make me acknowledge, that I am extremely absurd and thick- 
headed." 

"Not at all," replied Jarno; "continue, my friend, to answer 
to the point. So, what happens then, when the orderly pile of 
wood has been arranged solidly, yet lightly?" 

" Why, they set fire to it." 

'♦And when it is thoroughly alight, when the flame bursts 
forth from every crevice, what happens ? Do they let it burn on ? " 

T. L.— 9 



130 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"Not at all. They cover up the flames, which keep breaking 
out again and again, with turf and earth, with coal dust, and 
anything else at hand." 

" To quench them ? " 

"Not at all; to damp them down." 

"And thus they leave it just as much air as is necessary, that 
all may be penetrated with the glow, so that all ferments aright. 
Then every crevice is shut, every outlet prevented ; so that the 
whole by degrees is extinguished in itself, carbonized, cooled 
down, finally taken out separately, as marketable ware, for- 
warded to farrier and locksmith, to baker and cook ; and when 
it has served sufficiently for the profit and edification of dear 
Christendom, is employed in the form of ashes by washerwomen 
and soap-boilers." 

" AVell," replied Wilhelm, laughing, "what have you in view in 
reference to this comparison ? " 

"That is not difficult to say," replied Jarno. "I look upon 
myself as an old basket of excellent beech charcoal; but in 
addition I allow myself the privilege of burning only for my 
own sake; whence also I appear very strange to people." 

"And me," said Wilhelm ; " how will you treat me? " 

"At the present moment," said Jarno, "I look on you as a 
pilgrim's staff, which has the wonderful property of sprouting in 
every corner in which it is put, but never taking root. Now draw 
out the comparison further for yourself, and learn to understand 
why neither forester nor gardener, neither charcoal burner nor 
joiner, nor any other craftsman, knows how to make anything 
of you." 

Our pilgrims had performed the journey according to pro- 
gramme, and prosperously reached the frontier of the province 
in which they were to learn so many wonderful things. On their 
first entry they beheld a most fertile region, the gentle slopes of 
which were favorable to agriculture, its higher mountains to 
sheep feeding, and its broad valleys to the rearing of cattle. It 
was shortly before the harvest, and everything was in the great- 



JOHANN WOLFGANG YON GOETHE. 131 

est abundance; still, what surprised them from the outset was, 
that they saw neither women nor men, but only boys and youths 
busy getting ready for a prosperous harvest, and even making- 
friendly preparations for a joyous harvest home. They greeted 
now one, and now another, and inquired about the master, of 
whose whereabouts no one could give an account. The address 
of their letter was : To the Master or to the Three, and this, too, 
the boys could not explain; however, they referred the inquirers 
to an overseer, who was just preparing to mount his horse. 
They explained their object; Felix's frank bearing seemed to 
please him; and so they rode together along the road. 

Wilhelm had soon observed that a great diversity prevailed 
in the cut and color of the clothing, which gave a peculiar 
aspect to the whole of the little community. He was just on the 
point of asking his companion about this, when another strange 
sight was displayed to him; all the children, howsoever they 
might be occupied, stopped their work, and turned, with peculiar 
yet various gestures, towards the party riding past; and it was 
easy to infer that their object was the overseer. The youngest 
folded their arms crosswise on the breast, and looked cheerfully 
towards the sky; the intermediate ones held their arms behind 
them, and looked smiling upon the ground ; the third sort stood 
erect and boldly; with arms at the side, they turned the head to 
the right, and placed themselves in a row, instead of remaining 
alone, like the others, where they were first seen. 

Accordingly, when they halted and dismounted, just where 
several children had ranged themselves in various attitudes and 
were being inspected by the overseer, Wilhelm asked the meaning 
of these gestures. 

Felix interposed, and said cheerfully: ''What position have I 
to take, then?" 

"In any case," answered the intendant, "at first the arms 
across the breast, and looking seriously and gladly upward, 
without turning your glance." He obeyed; however he soon 
exclaimed : "This does not please me particularly; I see nothing 
overhead ; does it last long? But yes, indeed !" he exclaimed joy- 



132 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

fully, "I see two hawks fljing from west to east; that must be a 
good omen!" 

" It depends on how you take to it, how you behave yourself," 
rejoined the former; '' now go and mingle with them, just as they 
mingle with each other." 

He made a sign, the children forsook their attitudes, resumed 
their occupations or went on playing as before. 

<« Will you, and can you," Wilhelm now asked, "explain to me 
that which causes my wonder? I suppose that these gestures, 
these positions, are greetings, with which they welcome you." 

"Just so," answered the other; "greetings, that tell me at 
once at what stage of cultivation eadi of these boys stands." 

"But could you," Wilhelm added, "explain to me the meaning 
of the graduation? For that it is such, is easy to see." 
. "That is the part of better people than me," answered the 
other; "but I can assure you of this much, that they are no 
empty grimaces, and that, on the contrary, we impart to the 
children, not indeed the highest, but still a guiding and intelli- 
gible explanation; but at the same time we commend each to 
keep and cherish for himself what we may have chosen to impart 
for the information of each : they may not chat about it witli 
strangers, nor amongst themselves, and thus the teaching is 
modified in a hundred ways. Besides this the secrecy has very 
great advantages; for if we tell people immediately and perpet- 
ually the reason of everything, they think that there is nothing 
behind. To certain secrets, even if they may be known, we ha,ve 
to show deference by concealment and silence, for this tends to 
modesty and good morals." 

"I understand you," said Wilhelm. "Why should we not 
also apply spiritually what is so necessary in bodily matters? 
But perhaps in another respect you can satisfy my curiosity. I 
am surprised at the great variety in the cut and color of their 
clothes, and yet I do not see all kinds of color, but a few only, 
and these in all their shades, from the brightest to the darkest. 
Still I observe, that in this there cannot be meant any indication 
of degrees of either age or merit; since the smallest and biggest 



JOHANN WOLFGANG YON GOETHE. 133 

bojs mingled together, may be alike in cut and color, whilst 
those who are alike in gestures do not agree with one another 
in dress." 

"As concerns this, too," their companion replied, "I cannot 
explain any further ; yet I shall be much mistaken if you depart 
hence without being enlightened about all that you may wish to 
know." 

They were now^ going in search of the master, whom they 
thought that they had found ; but now a stranger could not but 
be struck by the fact, that the deeper they got into the country, 
the more they were met by a harmonious sound of singing. 
Whatsoever the boys set about, in w4iatever work they were 
found engaged, they were for ever singing, and in fact it seemed 
that the songs were speciallj^ adapted to each particular occupa- 
tion, and in similar cases always the same. If several children 
were in any place, they would accompany each other in turns. 
Towards evening they came upon some dancing, their steps 
being animated and guided by choruses. Felix from his horse 
chimed in with his voice, and, in truth, not badly; Wilhelm was 
delighted with this entertainment, which made the neighborhood 
so lively. "I suppose," he observed to his companion, "j^ou 
devote a great deal of care to this kind of instruction, for other- 
wise this ability would not be so widely diffused, or so perfectly 
developed." 

" Just so," replied the other ; "with us the art of singing forms 
the first step in education; everything else is subservient to it, 
and attained by means of it. With us the simplest enjoj^ment, as 
well as the simplest instruction, is enlivened and impressed by 
singing; and even what we teach in matters of religion and 
morals is communicated by the method of song. Other advan- 
tages for independent ends are directly allied; for, whilst we 
practice the children in writing down by symbols on the slate the 
notes which they produce, and then, according to the indication 
of these signs, in reproducing them in their throats, and more- 
over in adding the text, they exercise at the same time the hand, 
ear, and eye, and attain orthography and calligraphy quicker 



134 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

than you would believe; and, finally, since all this must be prac- 
ticed and copied according to pure meter and accurately fixed 
time, they learn to understand much sooner than in other ways 
the high value of measure and computation. On this account, 
of all imaginable means, we have chosen music as the first ele- 
ment of our education, for from this, equally easy roads radiate 
in every direction." 

Wilhelm sought to inform himself further, and did not hide his 
astonishment at hearing no instrumental music. 

" We do not neglect it," replied the other, ''but we practice it 
in a special place, inclosed in the most charming mountain val- 
ley ; and then again we take care that the different instruments 
are taught in places lying far apart. Especially are the discord- 
ant notes of beginners banished to certain solitary spots, where 
they can drive no one crazy; for you will yourself confess, that 
in well-regulated civil society scarcel^^ any more miserable nui- 
sance is to be endured than when the neighborhood inflicts upon 
us a beginner on the flute or on the violin. Our beginners, from 
their own laudable notion of wishing to be an annoyance to none, 
go voluntarily for a longer or shorter period into the wilds, and, 
isolated there, vie with one another in attaining the merit of 

# 

being allowed to draw nearer to the inhabited 'world ; on which 
account they are, from time to time, allowed to make an attempt 
at drawing nearer, which seldom fails, because in these, as in our 
other modes of education, we venture actually to develop and 
encourage a sense of shame and diffidence. I am sincerely'' glad 
that your son has got a good voice; the rest will be effected all 
the more easily." 

They had now reached a place where Felix was to remain, and 
make trial of his surroundings, until they were disposed to grant 
a formal admission. They already heard from afar a cheerful 
singing; it was a game, which the boys were now enjoying in 
their play hour. A general chorus resounded, in which each 
member of a large circle joined heartily, clearly, and vigorously 
in his part, obeying the directions of the superintendent. The 
latter, however, often took the singers by surprise, by suspending 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 135 

with a signal the chorus singing, and bidding some one or other 
single performer, by a touch of his baton, to adapt alone some 
suitable song to the expiring tune and the passing idea. Most 
of them already showed considerable ability; a few who failed 
in the performance willingly paid their forfeit, without exactly 
being made a laughing-stock. Felix was still child enough to 
mix at once among them, and came tolerably well out of the 
trial. Thereupon the first style of greeting was conceded to him ; 
he forthwith folded his arms on his breast, looked upwards, and 
with such a droll expression withal, that it was quite plain that 
no hidden meaning in it had as yet occurred to him. 

The pleasant spot, the kind reception, the merry games, all 
pleased the boy so well, that he did not feel particularly sad 
when he saw his father depart; he looked almost more wistfully 
at the horse as it was led away; yet he had no difficulty in under- 
standing, when he was informed that he could not keep it in the 
present locality. On the other hand, they promised him that he 
should find, if not the same, at all events an equally lively and 
well-trained one when he did not expect it. 

As the Superior could not be foiind, the overseer said: "I 
must now leave you, to pursue my own avocations; but still I 
will take you to the Three, who preside over holy things : your 
letter is also addressed to them, and together they stand in place 
of the Superior." 

Wilhelm would have liked to learn beforehand about the holy 
things, but the other replied : ^' The Three in return for the confi- 
dence with which you have left your son with us, will certainly, in 
accordance with wisdom and justice, reveal to you all that is 
most necessary. The visible objects of veneration, which I have 
called holy things, are included within a particular boundary, 
are not mingled with anything, or disturbed by anything; only 
at certain times of the year, the pupils, according to the stages 
of their education, are admitted to them, in order that they 
may be instructed historically and through their senses; for in 
this way they carry off with them an impression, enough for 
them to feed upon for a long time in the exercise of their duty.'- 



136 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Wilhelm now stood at the entrance of a forest valley, inclosed 
by lofty walls; on a given signal a small door was opened, and 
a serious, respectable-looking man received our friend. He found 
himself within a large and beautifully verdant inclosure, shaded 
with trees and bushes of every kind, so that he could scarcely see 
some stately w^alls and fine buildings through the dense and 
lofty natural growth; his friendly reception by the Three who 
came up by and by, ultimately concluded in a conversation to 
which each contributed something of his own, but the substance 
of which we shall put together in brief. 

" Since you have intrusted your son to us," they said, "it is 
our duty to let you see more deeply into our methods of proceed- 
ing. You have seen many external things, that do not carry 
their significance with them all at once; which of these do you 
most wish to have explained? " 

''I have remarked certain seemly yet strange gestures and 
obeisances, the significance of which I should like to learn ; with 
you no doubt what is external has reference to what is within, 
and vice versa ; let me understand this relation." 

"Well-bred and healthy children possess a great deal ; Nature 
has given to each everything that he needs for time and continu- 
ance; our duty is to develop this; often it is better developed 
by itself. But one thing no one brings into the world, and yet 
it is that upon which depends everything through which a man 
becomes a man on every side. If you can find it out yourself, 
speak out." 

Wilhelm bethought himself for a short time, and then shook 
his head. After a suitable pause, they exclaimed : "Veneration ! " 

Wilhelm was startled. 

"Veneration," they repeated. "It is wanting in all, and per- 
haps in yourself. You have seen three kinds of gestures, and we 
teach a threefold veneration, which, when combined to form a 
whole, only then attains to its highest power and effect. The 
first is veneration for that which is above us. That gesture, the 
arms folded on the breast, a cheerful glance towards the sky, that 
is precisely what we prescribe to our untutored children, at the 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VOX GOETHE. 137 

same time requiring witness of them that there is a God up above 
who reflects and reveals Himself in our parents, tutors and supe- 
riors. The second, veneration for that which is below^ us. The 
hands folded on the back as if tied together, the low^ered, smiling 
glance, bespeak that we have to regard the earth well and cheer- 
fully; it gives us an opportunity to maintain ourselves; it affords 
unspeakable joys; but it brings disproportionate sufferings. If 
one hurts oneself bodily, whether faultily or innocently, if others 
hurt one, intentionally or accidentally; if earthly chance does 
one any harm, let that be well thought of, for such danger accom- 
panies us all our life long. But from this condition we deliver 
our pupil as soon as possible, directly we are convinced that the 
teachings of this stage have made a sufficient impression upon 
him ; but then we bid him be a man, look to his companions, and 
guide himself with reference to them. Now he stands erect and 
bold, yet not selfishly isolated; only in a union w^ith his equals 
does he present a front towards the world. We are unable to add 
anything further." 

" I see it all," replied Wilhelm ; '' it is probably on this account 
that the multitude is so inured to vice, because it only takes 
pleasure in the element of ill-will and evil speech ; he who indulges 
in this soon becomes indifferent to God, contemptuous towards 
the world, and a hater of his fellows; but the true, genuine, indis- 
pensable feeling of self-respect is ruined in conceit and presump- 
tion." 

"Allow me, nevertheless," Wilhelm went on, <'to make one 
objection; has it not ever been held that the fear evinced by 
savage nations in the presence of mighty natural phenomena, 
and other inexplicable foreboding events, is the germ from which 
a higher feeling, a purer disposition, should gradually be devel- 
oped?" 

To this the others replied : " Fear, no doubt, is consonant with 
nature, but not reverence; people fear a known or unknown 
powerful being: the strong one tries to grapple with it, the weak 
to avoid it; both wish to get rid of it, and feel happy when in a 
short space they liave conquered it, w hen their nature in some 



138 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

measure has regained its freedom and independence. The natural 
man repeats this operation a million times during his life; from 
fear he strives after liberty, from liberty he is driven back into 
fear, and does not advance one step further. To fear is easy, but 
unpleasant ; to entertain reverence is difficult, but pleasing. Man 
determines himself unwillingly to reverence, or rather never 
determines himself to it; it is a loftier sense which must be 
imparted to his nature, and which is self-developed only in the 
most exceptionally gifted ones, whom therefore from all time we 
have regarded as saints, as gods. In this consists the dignity, in 
this the function of all genuine religions, of which also there exist 
only three, according to the objects towards which they direct 
their worship." 

The men paused, Wilhelm remained silent for a while in 
thought; as he did not feel himself equal to pointing these 
strange words, he begged the worthy men to continue their 
remarks, which, too, they at once consented to do. 

"No religion," they said, " whi(;h is based on fear is esteemed 
among us. With the reverence which a man allows himself to 
entertain, whilst he accords honor, he may preserve his own 
honor; he is not at discord with himself, as in the other case. 
The religion which rests on reverence for that which is above us 
we call the ethnical one; it is the religion of nations, and the 
first happy redemption from a base fear; all so-called heathen 
religions are of this kind, let them have what names thej^ will. 
The second religion, which is founded on that reverence which we 
have for what is like ourselves, we call the philosophic; for the 
philosopher, who places himself in the middle, must draw down- 
ward to himself all that is higher, and upward to himself all that 
is lower, and only in this central position does he deserve the 
name of the sage. Now, whilst he penetrates his relations to his 
fellows, and therefore to the whole of humanity, and his relations 
to all other earthly surroundings, necessary or accidental, in the 
cosmical sense he only lives in the truth. But we must now speak 
of the third religion, based on reverence for that which is below 
us; we call it the Christian one, because this disposition of mind 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 139 

is chiefly revealed in it; it is the last one which humanity could 
and was bound to attain. Yet what was not demanded for it? 
not merely to leave earth below, and claim a higher origin, but 
to recognize as divine even humility and poverty, scorn and con- 
tempt, shame and misery, suffering and death; nay, to revere 
and make lovable even sin and crime, not as hindrances but as 
furtherances of holiness! Of this there are indeed found traces 
throughout all time; but a track is not a goal, and this having" 
once been reached, humanity cannot turn backw^ards; and it 
may be maintained that the Christian religion having once 
appeared, can never disappear again; having once been divinely 
embodied, cannot again be dissolved." 

"Which of these religions do you then profess more particu- 
larly?" said Wilhelm. 

"All three," answered the others, "for, in point of fact, they 
together present the true religion; from these three reverences 
outsprings the highest reverence, reverence for oneself, and the 
former again develop themselves from the latter, so that man 
attains to the highest he is capable of reaching, in order that 
he may consider himself the best that God and nature have 
produced; nay, that he may be able to remain on this height 
without being drawn through conceit or egoism into what is 
base." 

" Such a profession of faith, developed in such a manner, does 
not estrange me," replied Wilhelm; "it agrees with all that one 
learns here and there in life, only that the very thing unites you 
that severs the others." 

To this the others replied : " This confession is already adhered 
to by a large part of the world, though unconsciously." 

"How so, and where? " asked AVilhelm. 

"In the Creed!" exclaimed the others, loudly; "for the first 
article is ethnical, and belongs to all nations; the second is 
Christian, for those struggling against sufferings and glorified 
in sufferings ; the third finally teaches a spiritual communion of 
saints, to wit, of those in the highest degree good and wise; 
ought not therefore in fairness the three divine Persons, under 



140 THE TEACHER IN LITERAIURE. 

whose likeness and name such convictions and promises are 
■uttered, to pass also for the highest Unity? " 

" I thank you," replied the other, "for having so clearly and 
coherently explained this to me — to whom, as a full grown man, 
the three dispositions of mind are not new; and when I recall 
that you teach the children these high truths, first through 
material symbols, then through a certain symbolic analogy, and 
finally develop in them the highest interpretation, I must needs 
highly' approve of it." 

"Exactly so," replied the former; "but now you must still 
learn something more, in order that you may be convinced that 
your son is in the best hands. However, let this matter rest 
for the morning hours; rest and refresh yourself, so that, con- 
tented and humanly complete, you may accompany us farther 
into the interior to-morrow." 

Led by the hand of the eldest, our friend now entered through 
a handsome portal into a room, or rather, eight-sided hall, which 
was so richly adorned with pictures, that it caused astonish- 
ment to the visitor. He easily understood that all that he saw 
must have an important meaning, though he himself was not 
at once able to guess it. He was just on the point of asking his 
conductor about it, when the latter invited him to enter a side 
gallery, which, open on one side, surrounded a spacious, richly 
planted flower-garden. The wall, however, attracted the eye 
more than this brilliant adornment of nature, for it was painted 
throughout its whole length, and the visitor could not walk far 
along it without remarking that the sacred books of the Israel- 
ites had furnished the subjects of these pictures. 

"It is here," said the eldest, "that we teach that religion 
which, for the sake of brevity, I have called the ethnical. Its 
internal substance is found in the history of the world, as its 
external envelope in the events themselves. In the reoccur- 
rence of the destinies of entire nations it is, properly speaking, 
grasped." 

" You have, I see," said Wilhe'm, " conferred the honor on the 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 141 

Israelitish people, and made its history the foundation of this 
exposition, or rather you have made it the principal subject of 
the same." 

''Just as you see," rejoined the old man, "for you will observe 
that in the plinths and friezes are represented not so much 
synchronistic as symphronistic actions and events, whilst among 
all nations there occur traditions of similar and equal import. 
Thus, while in the principal field, Abraham is visited by his gods 
in the form of handsome youths, you see up there in the frieze 
Apollo among the shepherds of Admetus; from which we may 
learn that when the gods appear to men, they mostly go about 
unrecognized among them." 

The two observers went farther. Wilhelm found for the most 
part well-known subjects, yet represented in a more lively and 
significant manner than he had been accustomed to see them 
before. In reference to a few matters he asked for some ex- 
planation, in doing which he could not refrain from inquir- 
ing again, why they had selected the Israelitish history before 
all others? 

Hereupon the eldest answered: "Among all heathen reli- 
gions . . . this one has great advantages, of which I shall 
mention only a few. Before the ethnic tribunal, before the 
tribunal of the God of nations, it is not the question, whether 
it is the best or the most excellent nation, but only whether it 
still exists, whether it has maintained itself. The Israelitish 
nation has never been worth much, as its leaders, judges, rulers, 
and prophets have a thousand times thrown in its teeth; it 
possesses few virtues, and most of the faults of other nations ; 
but in independence, endurance, courage, and if all that were no 
longer of account, in toughness, it cannot find its equal. It is 
the most tenacious people on the face of the earth ! It is, it has 
been, and will be, to glorify the name of Jehovah through all 
time. We have, therefore, set it up as a pattern, as a master- 
piece, to which the others only serve as a frame." 

"It is not becoming in me to argue with you," replied Wil- 
helm, " since you are in a position to teach me. Proceed, there- 



142 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

fore, to explain to me the other advantages of this nation, or 
rather of its history, of its rehgion." 

"One principal advantage," answered the other, "consists in 
the excellent collection of its sacred books. They are combined 
so happily, that from the most heterogeneous elements there 
results a deceptive unity. They are complete enough to satisfy, 
fragmentary enough to stimulate interest; sufficiently barbaric 
to excite challenge, sufficiently tender to soothe; and how many 
other opposing qualities might we extol in these books, in this 
Book!" 

The series of the principal pictures, as well as the connection 
of the smaller ones which accompanied them above and below, 
gave the guest so much to think of, that he scarcely listened to 
the explanatory remarks by which his companion seemed rather 
to divert his attention from, than to fix it on, the subjects. 

In the meanwhile the other took occasion to say: "I must here 
mention one advantage of the Israelitish religion : that it does 
not embody its God in any given form, and therefore leai^es us at 
liberty to give him a worthy human figure; also, on the other 
hand, to depict base idolatry by the forms of beasts and mon- 
sters." 

Our friend, moreover, in a short stroll through these halls had 
again called to mind the history of the world; there was some- 
thing new to him in regard to the circumstance. Thus, through 
the juxtaposition of the pictures, through the reflections of his 
companion, fresh ideas had dawned upon his mind; and he was 
glad that Felix by means of a visible representation of such 
merit should appropriate to himself for his whole life long, as 
vividly as if they had actually happened in his own time, 
those grand, significant, and inimitable events. He looked 
at these pictures at last only with the eyes of the child, and in 
this aspect he felt perfectly satisfied with them. And so stroll- 
ing on they reached those sad, confused periods, and finally 
the destruction of the city and the temple, the murder, banish- 
ment and slavery of whole multitudes of this obstinate nation. 
Its subsequent destinies were represented by discreet allegory, 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 143 

since a historic and real representation of them lies beyond the 
limits of the noble art. 

Here the gallery, through which they had walked, terminated 
abruptly, and Wilhelm wondered at finding himself already at 
the end. 

"I find," he said to his guide, '^an omission in this historical 
walk. You have destroyed the Temple of Jerusalem, and scat- 
tered the nation, without introducing the Divine Man, who 
shortly before that very time taught in it, and to whom, too, 
shortly before they would give no hearing." 

"To do this, as you demand, would have been a mistake. The 
life of that Divine Man, to whom you allude, stands in no con- 
nection with the w^orld history of his time. His was a private 
life, his doctrine a doctrine for individuals. "W^hat publicly con- 
cerns the masses of the people and its members belongs to the 
history of the world, to the religion of the world, which we 
regard as the first. What inwardly concerns the individual 
belongs to the second religion, to the religion of the wise ; such 
was the one that Christ taught and practiced as long as he went 
about on earth. Wherefore the external ends here, and I now 
open to 3-ou the internal." 

A door opened, and they entered a similar gallery, where Wil- 
helm at once recognized the pictures of the second holy writings. 
They seemed to be by a different hand from the first; everything 
was gentler, forms, movements, surroundings, light, and coloring. 

"You see here," said his companion, after they had walked past 
a part of thepictures, "neither deeds nor events, but miracles and 
parables. Here is a new world; a new exterior, different from the 
former, and an interior, which in that is entirely lacking. By 
miracles and parables a new world is opened. The former make 
the common extraordinary, the latter make the extraordinary 
common." 

"Have the kindness," replied Wilhelm, "to explain me these 
few words more circumstantially, for I do not feel equal to doing 
it myself." 

" You possess a natural mind," replied the other, "although 



144 THE TEACHER IN LITEKATVRE. 

a deep one. Examples will open it most readily. Nothing is 
more common or ordinary than eating and drinking; on the 
other hand, it is extraordinary to ennoble a beverage, or to mul- 
tiply a meal, so that it may suffice for a countless number. 
Nothing is commoner than illness and bodily infirmity; but to 
cure, to alleviate these by spiritual or spiritual-seeming means, is 
extraordinary: and just in this consists the marvel of the 
miracle — that the common and extraordinary, the possible and 
the impossible, become one. In the similitude, in the parable, 
the reverse is the case; here you have mind, insight, the idea of 
the sublime, the extraordinary, the unattainable. When this is 
em'bodied in a common, ordinary, intelligible image, so that it 
confronts us as living, present and real, so that we can appro- 
priate, seize, retain, and converse with it as with one of our own 
like; that indeed becomes a second species of miracle, which is 
fa'irly associated with the first kind, nay, perhaps, is to be pre- 
ferred to it. Here the living doctrine itself is pronounced, the 
doctrine that rouses no dispute. It is no opinion as to what is 
right or wrong ; it is indisputably right or wrong itself." 

This part of the gallery was shorter, or rather it was only the 
fourth part of the enclosure of the inner court-yard. But while 
one cared only to pass along the first, here one was glad to 
linger, here one liked to walk to and fro. The subjects were not 
so striking nor so manifold, but so much the more did they invite 
inquiry into their deep and quiet meaning; moreover, the two 
wanderers turned at the end of the corridor, whilst Wilhelm 
expressed a fear that in fact only the last supper, the last parting 
of the Master from his disciples, was reached. He asked for the 
remaining part of the story. 

<'In all teaching," replied the elder one, "in all tradition, we 
are very willing to set apart only what it is possible to set apart, 
for only thereby can the notion of what is significant be devel- 
oped in youth. Life otherwise mingles and mixes everything 
together; and thus we have here the life of that excellent Man 
completely separated from its end. During life he appears as a 
true philosopher — do not be scandalized at this expression — as a 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 145 

sage in the highest sense. He stands firmly to his point; he pur- 
sues his own path unflinchingly, and whilst he draws up to him- 
self what is inferior, w^hilst he allows the ignorant, the poor, the 
sick, a share in his wisdom, wealth, and power, and thereby seems 
to step down to their level; still on the other hand, he does not 
deny his divine origin; he dares to make himself equal to God, 
nay, to declare himself God. In this manner, from his youth up, 
he astonishes those w^ho surround him, gains one part of them 
over to himself, arouses the^other against himself, and shows all 
those to whom it is a question of a certain sublimity in doctrine 
and life, what they will have to expect from the world. And thus 
his life's journey for the noble part of humanity is more instruct- 
ive and fruitful than his death; for to the one test everyone is 
called, but to the other only a few. And in order that we may 
pass over all that follows from this, only look at the touching 
scene of the last supper! Here the sage, as always happens, 
leaves his followers behind, quite orphaned, so to say, and whilst 
he is taking thought for the good ones, he is at the same time 
feeding with them a traitor, who will bring him and the better 
ones to destruction." 

With these words the elder opened a door, and Wilhelm was 
astonished to find himself again in the first hall of entrance. In 
the meantime, they had made, as he could easily see, the entire 
circuit of the court-yard. 

"I was hoping," said Wilhelm, "that you would conduct me 
to the end, whilst you are taking me back to the beginning." 

" This time I can show you nothing more," said the elder; " we 
do not let our pupils see more, we do not explain to them more 
than what you have so far passed through; the external and 
generally mundane may be imparted to each from his youth up ; 
the internal and specially spiritual and mental, only to those 
who are growing up to a certain degree of thoughtfulness ; and 
the rest, which can be disclosed only once a year, only to those 
of whom we are taking leave. That last form of religion, which 
arises from respect for what is below us, that reverence for what 
is repugnant, hateful, and apt to be shunned, we impart to each 

T. L.— 10 



146 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

only by way of outfit for the world, in order that he may know 
where he can find the like, if need of such should stir within him. 
I invite you to return after the lapse of a year to attend our 
general festival, and to see how far your son has progressed; at 
which time, too, you shall be initiated into the holy estate of 
sorrow." 

Wilhelm lingered, looking over the pictures in the vestibule, 
wishing to have their meaning explained. 

''This, too," said the elder, "we shall continue to owe you 
until the year is over. We do not admit any strangers to the 
instruction which we impart to the children during the interval ; 
but in due time come and listen to what our best speakers think 
fit to say publicly on these subjects." 

Soon after this conversation a knock was heard at the small 
door. The inspector of yesterday presented himself; he had led 
up Wilhelm's horse. And thus our friend took leave of the Three, 
who at parting recommended him to the inspector in the follow- 
ing terms: "He is now numbered among the confidants, and 
what you have to answer to his questions is known to you ; for 
he surely still wishes to be enlightened about many things that he 
has seen and heard with us; the measure and purport are not un- 
known to you." Wilhelm had still in fact a few questions on his 
mind, which also he expressed forthwith. Wherever they rode by, 
the children ranged themselves as on the day before; but to-day 
he sa,w, although rarely, a boy here and there who did not salute 
the inspector as he rode past, did not look up from his work, and 
allowed him to pass by without notice. Wilhelm now inquired 
the cause of this, and what this exception meant. 

The other replied thereto: "It is in fact exceedingly signifi- 
cant, for it is the severest punishment that we inflict upon our 
pupils; they are declared unworthy of showing reverence, and 
compelled to seem rude and uncultured; but they do all that is 
possible to rescue themselves from this position, and apply them- 
selves as quickly as possible to ev^ery duty. Should, however, 
any hardened youngster show no readiness to recant, then he is 



JOHANN WOLFGANG TON GOETHE, 14.7 

sent back to his parents with a short but conclusive report. He 
who does not learn to adapt himself to the laws must leave the 
region where they prevail." 

Another sight excited to-day as yesterday the curiosity of the 
traveler; it was the variety of color and shape in the clothes of 
the pupils. In this there seemed to prevail no graduated arrange- 
ment, for some who saluted differently were dressed in uniform 
style, whilst those who had the same way of greeting were clad 
differently. Wilhelm asked for the cause of this seeming contra- 
diction. 

" It is explained thus," replied the other; ''namely, that it is a 
means of finding out the peculiar disposition of each boy. With 
strictness and method in other things, in this respect we allow a 
certain degree of freedom to prevail. Within the scope of our 
stores of cloths and trimmings, the pupils are allowed to choose 
any favorite color, and also within moderate limits to select both 
shape and cut; this we scrupulously observe, for by the color you 
may find out people's bent of mind, and by the cut, the style of 
life. Yet there is one special peculiarity of human nature which 
makes a more accurate judgment to some extent difficult ; this is 
the spirit of imitation — the tendency? to associate. It is verj sel- 
dom that a pupil lights on anything that has not occurred 
before; for the most part they choose something familiar, what 
they see just before them. Still, this consideration does not 
remain unprofitable to us; by means of such external signs they 
ally themselves to this or that party, join in here or there, and 
thus more general dispositions distinguish themselves; we learn 
to where each inclines and to what example he assimilates him- 
self. Now, cases have been seen, in which the dispositions inclined 
towards the general, in which one fashion would extend itself to 
all, and everypeculiarity tend towards losing itself in the totality. 
In a gentle way we try to put a stop to a tendency of this kind ; 
we allow our stores to run short ; one or other kind of stuff or 
ornament is no more to be had. We substitute something new, 
something attractive; through light colors, and short close cut, 
we attract the cheerful ones; by somber shades and comfortable. 



148 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ample suits, the thoughtful ones, and thus gradually establish a 
balance. For we are altogether opposed to uniform ; it hides the 
character, and, more than any other disguise, conceals the pecu- 
liarities of the children from the sight of their superiors." 

With such and other conversation Wilhelm arrived at the 
frontier of the district, and precisely at the point where the trav- 
eler, according to his old friend's direction, ought to leave it, in 
order to .pursue his own private ends. 

On parting, the inspector first of all observed that Wilhelm 
might now wait until the grand festival for all their sympathizers 
in various ways was announced. To this all the parents would 
be invited, and able pupils be dismissed to the chances of free 
life. After that, he was informed, he might at his leisure enter 
the other districts, where, in accordance with peculiar principles, 
special instruction amidst the most perfect surroundings was 
imparted and practiced. 

If we now seek out our friend again — for some time left to 
his own resources — we shall find him as he comes hither from the 
side of the level country into the Pedagogic Province. He comes 
across pastures and meadows, skirts on the dry down many a 
small lake, looks on bushy rather than wooded hills ; on all sides 
a free prospect over a land but little tilled. On such tracks it did 
not long remain doubtful that he was in the horse-breeding dis- 
trict, and he noticed here and there smaller and larger herds of 
these noble beasts of different sex and age. But all at once the 
horizon is covered with a fearful dust-cloud, which, rapidly loom- 
ing nearer and nearer, completely conceals the whole breadth of 
the space, but at last, parted by a keen side-wind, is forced to 
disclose the tumult inside it. 

A large body of the said noble beasts rushes forward in full 
gallop ; they are guided and kept together by keepers on horse- 
back. The tremendous hurly-burly rushes past the traveler; a 
fine boy, amongst the keepers in charge, looks at him in aston- 
ishment, pulls up, jumps off, and embraces his father. 

Now questioning and explanation ensue. The son relates that 



JOEANN WOLFGANG VOX GOETHE. 149 

he had had to put up with a good deal during the first probation 
time; dispensing with his horse and going about on foot over 
ploughed lands and meadows, and, as he had declared before- 
hand, had not shown himself to advantage in the quiet toilsome 
country life. The harvest-feast had pleased him well enough; 
but the tillage afterwards, the ploughing, digging, and waiting, 
not at all. He had certainly occupied himself with the necessary 
and useful domestic animals, but always lazily and discontent- 
edly until he was at last promoted to the more lively business of 
riding. The occupation of looking after the mares and foals was 
tedious enough; meanwhile if one sees before one a lively little 
beast, that in three or four years' time will perhaps carry one 
about, it is quite a different sort of thing from troubling oneself 
about calves and sucking pigs, of which the end and aim is to be 
well fed and fattened, and then sold. 

With the growth of his boy, who was now really reaching 
youth's estate, with his healthy condition, and a certain merry 
freedom, not to say cleverness, in his talk, his father had good 
reason to be content. The two now proceeded to follow quickly 
on horseback the speeding convoy, past remote-lying and exten- 
sive farms to the village or country town where the great market 
was held. There incredible confusion was in full career, and it 
was impossible to distinguish whether the wares or the mer- 
chants raised the more dust. From all countries would-be pur- 
chasers here meet together in order to acquire animals of fine 
breed and careful rearing ; and one might think that one heard 
all the tongues of the earth. In the midst of it all, too, sounds 
the lively music of the most powerful wind instruments, and 
everything indicates movement, vigor, and life. 

Our traveler now again meets the overseer already known to 
him of old, and falls in company with other clever men, who 
manage quietly and no less unnoticeably to maintain discipline 
and order. Wilhelm believing that here again he sees an instance 
of exclusive occupation, and in spite of its seeming breadth of 
a narrow course of life, is anxious to ascertain by what other 
means they are accustomed to train the pupil, in order to pre- 



150 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

vent the youth— in such a wild, and in some degree savage, occu- 
pation of rearing and training beasts — from becoming a wild 
beast himself. And thus it was very gratifying to him to learn 
that with this same violent and rough-seeming vocation Avas 
united the most delicate in the world, the practice and the learn- 
ing of languages. 

xit this moment the father missed his son from his side; he saw 
him through the interstices of the crowd eagerly bargaining and 
arguing with a young peddler over some trifles. In a short time 
he altogether lost him. On the overseer's inquiring the reason of 
a certain embarrassment and abstraction, and hearing in reply 
that it was on his son's account, '' Never mind that," he said, to 
reassure the father, "he is not lost. But to show you how we 

keep our charges together " and thereuj5on he blew shrilly on 

a whistle that hung at his breast. In a moment it was answered 
by dozens from all sides. The man went on: "I will let this 
serve for the present, it is only a signal that the overseer is in the 
neighborhood and happens to want to know how many hear him. 
On a second signal they keep quiet, but make themselves ready; 
on the third they answer and come rushing up. Moreover, these 
signals are multiplied in very many ways and for special uses." A 
more open space had suddenly cleared itself round about them ; 
they were able to speak more freely whilst walking towards the 
adjoining heights. 

''We were led to this practice of languages," proceeded the 
overseer, " by the fact that we find here youths from all parts of 
the world. Now it is to prevent the people of one country from 
clanning together, as usually happens abroad, and forming par- 
ties asunder from the other nations, that we try by free com- 
munion of speech to bring them nearer to one another. But a 
universal knowledge of language is most necessary, inasmuch as 
at this fair every foreigner is glad to find a sufiicient means of 
intercourse in his own sounds and expressions, and at the same 
time all possible convenience in bargaining and dealing. Yet in 
order that no Babylonish confusion, no corruption of speech shall 
ensue, one language only is spoken in common, month by month 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VOX GOETHE. 151 

throughout the year, in accordance with the principle that one 
should learn nothing that has to be made compulsory except the 
rudiments. 

"We look upon our scholars," said the overseer, "as so many 
swimmers, who in the element that threatens to swallow^ them 
feel themselves with wonder to be lighter, and. are borne up 
and carried forward, by it — and. so it is with everything that man 
undertakes. Yet if one of our pupils shows a special inclina- 
tion for this or that language, provision is made even in the 
midst of this tumultuous-seeming life, which affords withal very 
many quiet, idle, and lonely, nay, tedious hours, for true and 
thorough instruction. You would have some difficulty in pick- 
ing out our equestrian grammarians, amongst whom there are 
verily a few pedants* from amidst these bearded and beardless 
centaurs. Your Felix has set himself to Italian, and since 
melodious singing, as you know already, pervades everything 
in our institutions, you might hear him, in the monotony of a 
herdsman's life, bring out many a ditty with taste and feeling. 
Activity and practical ability are far more reconcilable with 
efficient instruction than one thinks.'' 

As every district has its own peculiar festival, the guest was 
led to the domain of instrumental music. Bordering on the 
plains, it at once exhibited pleasantly and gracefully diversified 
valleys, little narrow copses, gentle brooks, by the banks of 
which a moss-grown rock slyly peeped out here and there 
amidst the turf. Scattered habitations, surrounded by bushes, 
were to be seen upon the hills ; in gentle dales the houses clus- 
tered nearer to each other. Those cottages, set gracefully apart, 
were so far from each other, that no musical sound either true 
or false could be heard from one to the other. 

They now approached a wide space, built and covered round 
about, where men standing shoulder to shoulder seemed on the 
tiptoe of attention and expectation. Just as the guest entered a 
powerful symphony on all the instruments commenced, the full- 
toned strength and tenderness of which he could not but admire. 

By the side of this roomily-constructed orchestra stood a 



152 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

smaller one which attracted special attention; upon it were 
younger and older scholars. Each held his instrument in readi- 
ness without playing on it. These were they who as yet were 
not able or did not venture to join in with the whole. O-ne 
noticed with interest how they were standing as it were at the 
spring, and heard it declared that such a festival seldom passed 
by without a genius in some one or other being suddenly 
developed. 

When vocal music also was brought forward in the intervals 
of the instrumental, there was no longer room to doubt that 
this, too, was in favor. Upon his inquiry, moreover, as to what 
further sort of education was joined in friendly union with this, 
the traveler learned that it was the art of poetry, and withal of 
the lyric sort. Their whole aim in this wa^ that the two arts, 
each for and from itself, but at the same time in contrast to and 
in conjunction with each other, should be developed. The pupils 
learn to know one as well as the other in their special limitations ; 
then they are taught how they mutually limit, and again mutu- 
ally emancipate, one another. 

To the rhythm of poetry the tone-artist opposes the division 
and movement of time. But here the sway of music over poetry 
soon manifests itself — for if the latter, as is proper and necessary, 
always keeps its quantities as clearly as possible in view, yet for 
the musician few syllables are definitely long or short ; he destroys 
at pleasure the most conscientious proceedings of the dealer in 
rhythm — nay, actually converts prose into song; whence ensue 
the most wonderful possibilities, and the poet would very soon 
feel himself annihilated were he not able, on his own part, to 
inspire the musician with reverence by means of lyric tenderness 
and boldness, and to call forth new feelings, at one time in the 
most delicate gradation, at another by the most abrupt 
transitions. 

The singers one finds here are for the most part themselves 
poets. Dancing, too, is taught in its rudiments ; so that all these 
accomplishments may diffuse themselves methodically through- 
out the whole of these regions. 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VOX GOETHE. 153 

Whien the guest was conducted across the next boundary he 
suddenly beheld quite a different style of building. The houses 
were no longer scattered, and no more of the cottage sort; they 
rather appeared to be set together with regularity — solid and 
handsome from without, roomy, convenient, and elegant within. 
Here one perceived an unconfined and well-built town, adapted 
to its situation. Here plastic art and its kindred crafts are at 
home, and a stillness quite peculiar prevails in these places. 

The plastic artist, it is true, always considers himself in 
relation to whatever lives and moves amidst mankind; but 
his occupation is a solitary one, and, by the strangest contra- 
diction, no other, perhaps, so decidedly calls for a living envi- 
ronment. Here, then, does each one create in silence what is 
soon to occupy the ej^es of men forever. A Sabbath stillness 
reigns over the whole place, and if one did not notice here and 
there the chipping of the stone-mason, or the measured blows 
of carpenters, just now busily employed in finishing a splendid 
building, not a sound would disturb the air. 

Our traveler was struck with the seriousness, the wonderful 
strictness, with which beginners, as well as the more advanced, 
were treated; it seemed as if no one essayed anything by his 
own strength and power, but as if a hidden spirit animated all 
throughout, guiding them to one single great end. Neither 
draft nor sketch was anywhere to be seen; every stroke was 
drawn with care. And when the traveler asked the guide for an 
explanation of the whole process, the latter remarked, ''The 
imagination is of itself a vague, inconstant faculty, whilst the 
whole merit of the plastic artist consists in this, namely, in 
learning ever more and more to define and grasp it firmly, nay, 
even at last to elevate it to the level of the present." 

He was reminded of the necessity in other arts of more certain 
principles. "Would the musician allow a pupil to strike wildly 
at the strings, or to invent intervals according to his own caprice 
and pleasure? Here it is remarkable that nothing is to be left 
to the learner's discretion. The element in which he is to work is 
given definitely, the tool that he has to handle is placed in his 



154 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

hand, the very style and method by which he is to avail himself 
of them (1 mean the fingering) he finds prescribed, by which one 
member gets out of the way of another, and gets the proper road 
ready for its successor, by which orderly co-operation alone the 
impossible becomes possible at last. But what mostly justifies 
us in strict demands and definite laws, is that it is precisely 
genius, the inborn talent, that grasps them first, and yields them 
the most willing obedience. Only mediocrity would fain substi- 
tute its lirnited specialty for the unlimited whole, and glorify its 
false ideas under the pretense of an uncontrollable originality 
and independence. This, how^ever, we do not let pass, but we 
protect our pupils against all false steps, whereby a great part of 
life, nay, often the whole life, is confused and broken up. With 
the genius we love best to deal, for he is specially inspired with 
the good spirit of recognizing quickly w^hat is useful to him. He 
sees that art is called Art, precisel}^ because it is not Nature; he 
accommodates himself to the proper respect even for that which 
might be called conventional, for what else is this but that the 
best men have agreed to regard the necessary, the inevitable, as 
the best? And is it not successful in every case? To the great 
assistance of the teachers, the three reverences and their symbols 
are introduced and inculcated here too, as everywhere with us, 
with some variation in conformity with the nature of the business 
that prevails." 

As the traveler was led further around, he was constrained to 
wonder at the fact, that the city seemed to extend itself forever, 
streets growing out of streets, and affording numberless fine 
views. The exterior of the buildings expressed their object 
unambiguously ; they were substantial and imposing, less showy 
than beautiful. After the nobler and more solemn one in the 
middle of the town came those of more cheerful aspect, until at 
last charming suburbs, of a graceful character, spread away 
towards the open country, dwindling away finally in the shape of 
country villas. 

The traveler could not avoid remarking here that the habita- 
tions of the musicians in the preceding region were, in respect to 



JOHANX WOLFGAXG VOX GOETHE. 155 

beauty and size, in no way to be compared with the present ones 
in which painters, sculptors and architects dw^elt. The answer 
given to him was, that this lay in the nature of things. The 
musician must always be absorbed within himself, to shape out 
his inmost thought and to bring it forth. He has not to flatter 
the sense of sight; the eye very easily supplants the ear, and 
tempts outward the spirit from within. The plastic artist, on 
the contrary, must live in the outer w^orld, and make his inner 
nature manifest, as it were unconsciously, on and in the external 
world. Plastic artists must live like kings and gods; how other- 
wise would they build and adorn for kings and gods? They must 
at last raise themselves above the ordinary so far that the w^hole 
community may feel honored in and by their works. 

Our friend then desired the explanation of another paradox — 
wh}^ it is that just on these festivals, which in other regions are 
such lively and tumultuously excited days, here the greatest 
quiet prevails, and work is not even exhibited? 

''A plastic artist," he said, " requires no festival; to him the 
whole year is a festival. When he has accomplished anj^thing 
excellent, it stands afterwards, as it did before, in his sight and 
in the sight of the whole world. In this no repetition is needed, 
no new^ effort, no fresh success, such as the musician is forever 
tormented by; who for that reason is not to be grudged the 
most splendid festival amidst the most numerous audience." 

"But yet," replied AVilhelm, "on days like this one would be 
glad to see an exhibition in which the three years' progress of 
the best pupils might be examined and criticized with pleasure." 

"In other places," he was told, "an exhibition may be neces- 
sary; with us it is not; our whole end and aim is exhibition. 
Look here at the buildings of every sort, all carried out by 
pupils; after plans discussed and revised, it is true, a hundred 
times ; for one who builds must not potter about and make 
experiments. What has to remain standing must stand well, and 
suffice, if not for eternity, at any rate for a considerable time. 
We may commit ever so many faults, but we must not build any. 
With sculptors we deal a little more leniently, most leniently of 



156 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

all with painters; they may experiment, here and there, each in 
his own style. It is open to them to choose in the inside or out- 
side spaces of buildings, in the open squares, a spot which they 
will decorate. They make their ideas public, and if one is in any 
degree worthy of approbation, the execution is agreed to ; but in 
one of two ways— either with the privilege of taking the work 
away, sooner or later, should it cease to please the artist himself, 
or with the condition of leaving the work, when once set up, irre- 
movably in its place. The most choose the former, and reserve 
the privilege for themselves, in which they are always well 
advised. The second case seldom occurs; and it is observable 
that the artists then rely less upon themselves, hold long con- 
ferences with their comrades and critics, and by that means 
manage to produce works really worthy of being valued and 
made permanent." 

After all this Wilhelm did not neglect to inquire what other 
instruction was given besides, and he was informed that this con- 
sisted of poetry, and in fact of epic poetry. 

Yet it must needs appear strange to our friend when they 
added that the pupils are not allowed to read or to recite the com- 
pleted poems of ancient and modern poets. " Merely a series of 
myths, traditions, and legends is briefly imparted to them. Thus 
we soon recognize by pictorial or poetic expression the special 
productive power of the genius devoted to one or the other art. 
Poets and artists both occupy themselves at the same well-spring, 
and each one tries to guide the stream towards his own side for 
his own advantage, so as to attain his end according to his 
requirements; at which he succeeds much better than if he set 
about making over again what has been made already." 

The traveler had an opportunity of seeing the process himself. 
Several painters were busy in one room ; a lively young compan- 
ion was telling a quite simple story very circumstantially, so 
that he employed almost as many words as they did pencil- 
strokes to complete his exposition in the most rounded style 
possible. 

They assured Wilhelm that in their joint work the friends 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 157 

entertained themselves very pleasantly, and that in this way 
improvisators were often developed who were able to arouse 
great enthusiasm in the twofold representation. 

Our friend now turned his inquiries again to plastic art. 
''You have," he said, "no exhibition, and consequently, I sup- 
pose, no award of prizes." 

"We have not, in point of fact," replied the other, "but, 
quite close by here, we can let you see what we regard as more 
useful." 

They turned into a large hall, lighted with good effect from 
above. A large circle of busy artists was first seen, from the 
midst of whom a colossal group, favorably placed, reared itself. 
Vigorous male and female forms, in powerful poses, reminded 
one of that splendid fight between youthful heroes and Amazons, 
in which hate and animosity at last resolve themselves into 
mutual and faithful alliance. This remarkably involved piece 
of art-work was seen to equal advantage from any point around 
it. Artists were sitting and standing in a large circle, each occu- 
pied after his own fashion : the painter at his easel, the draughts- 
man at his drawing-board, some modeling in the round, some in 
bas-relief; architects were even making drawings for the pedestal, 
upon which a similar work of art was afterwards to be placed. 
Everyone taking part in it adopted his own method in copying. 
Painters and draughtsmen developed the group in the flat, care- 
fully, indeed, so as not to spoil it, but to give as much as pos- 
sible. The work in bas-relief was treated in precisely the same 
manner. Only one had reproduced the whole group on a smaller 
scale, and in certain movements and arrangement of members 
he really seemed to have surpassed the model. 

It now appeared that this was the designer of the model, who, 
before its execution in marble, was now submitting it not to a 
critical but to a, practical test; and who, by taking accurate note 
of everything that each of his fellow-workers, according to his 
own method and way of thinking, saw, preserved, or altered in 
it, was enabled to turn it to his own advantage; with this object, 
that ultimately, when the perfect work should come forth chis- 



158 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

eled in marble, though undertaken, designed, and executed by 
only one, yet still it might seem to belong to all. 

In this room, too, the greatest silence reigned ; but the director 
raised his voice and cried, "Who is there here, who, in the pres- 
ence of this motionless work, can so move the imagination with 
the excellence of his words that all that we can see transfixed 
here shall again become resolved without losing its character, 
so that we may convince ourselves that what the artist has here 
laid hold Of is indeed the worthiest?" 

Expressly called on by them all, a beautiful youth left his 
work, and began by delivering a quiet discourse, in which he 
seemed merely to describe the present work; but soon he threw 
himself into the peculiar region of poetry, plunged into the midst 
of the action, and controlled this element to a marvel. Little 
by little his rendering was elevated by brilliant declamation, to' 
such a height that the rigid group seemed to turn upon its 
axis, and the number of the figures seemed thereby doubled and 
trebled. Wilhelm stood enraptured, and at last cried: "Who 
can longer refrain from passing on into actual song and rhyth- 
mic verse? " 

" This I would beg to refuse," replied the overseer, "for if our 
excellent sculptor will speak sincerely, he will confess that our 
poet hardly pleases him, and simply because the two artists 
stand as far as possible from one another: on the other hand, 
I would wager that here and there a painter has appropriated 
from him certain living traits. Yet there is a gentle kindly 
song that I might allow our friend to hear, one that you deliver 
with such sweet seriousness: it relates to art as a whole, and 
does me good myself whenever I hear it." 

After a pause, in which they beckoned to each other, and 
made arrangements by signs, the following fine heart-and-spirit- 
stirring song resounded from all sides : 

" To invent and bring to ending, 
Artist, bide tliou oft alone; 
Joy to rea]) from toilsome spending, 
Gay! V to thv friends begone! 



JOHANN WOLFGANG YON GOETHE. 159 

See them as a whole compacted, 

And discern thine own career ; 
Deeds in many a year enacted 

In thy neighbor will be clear. 

"First conceiving, then presenting, 

Ranging shapes in order wise, 
Each of them the rest accenting 

Till at last they all suffice. 
Well invented, render'd neatly, 

Feelingly and thoroughly done, 
Thus the artist hath discreetly 

Power from everlasting won. 

"As the thousand forms of nature 

Of one God alone do tell. 
So does one enduring feature 

In Art's wide domain prevail. 
This, the sense of Truth Eternal, 

Beauty dons as her array, 
And unharmed by light supernal 

Gazes on the brightest day. 

"As the speaker, as the singer 

Blithely fare in rhyme or prose, 
Fresh beneath the painter's finger 

Must bloom forth Life's joyous rose. 
With her sisters round her closing, 

With the fruits that autumn brings, 
Thus the mysteries disclosing 

Of Life's deeply hidden springs. 

" Form from form do thou dissever. 

Fair, in shapes a thousandfold; 
Of man's image glad forever 

That a God it did enfold. 
Stand in brotherhood united, 

Whatso'er your work may be; 
And like sacred incense lighted 

Rise on high in melody." 

Wilhelm might well have let all this pass, although it must 
have seemed to him very paradoxical, and, had he not seen it 



160 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

with his eyes, actually impossible. But when they proceeded, in 
beautiful sequence, to declare and make it all clear to him openly 
and frankly, he hardly needed to ask a single question for further 
information; yet he did not forbear, at last, to address his con- 
ductor as follows : 

" I see that here everything desirable in life has been provided 
for very wisely; but tell me, besides, which region can manifest a 
similar solicitude for dramatic poetry, arid where might I gain 
information on that subject? I have looked round amongst all 
your edifices, and find none that could be destined for such an 
object." 

"In reply to this question we cannot deny that there is noth- 
ing of the sort to be met with in the whole of our province, for 
the theater presupposes an idle crowd, perhaps even a rabble, the 
like of which is not to be found amongst us ; for such people, if 
they do not go away disgusted of their own accord, are conveyed 
across the frontier. Be assured, however, that in our universally 
active institution so important a point as this has been well con- 
sidered ; but no region could be found for it ; some weighty objec- 
tion occurred in every case. Who is there amongst our pupils 
who would have easily made up his mind to awaken in this mass, 
with feigned merriment or hypocritical sorrow, an unreal emo- 
tion inconsistent with the time, and thereby produce in alterations 
an ever-dubious pleasure? Such foolishness we considered alto- 
gether dangerous, and could not connect it with our serious 
aim." 

"And yet it is said," replied Wilhelm, "that this widely-encom- 
passing art requires all the others together." 

"Not at all," was the reply; "she makes use of the others, 
but spoils them. I do not blame the actor when he associates 
himself with the painter ; but still the painter, in such a partner- 
ship, is lost. The actor, without any conscience, will, for his own 
momentary ends, and with no small profit, use up all that art 
and life offer him; the painter, on the other hand, who would 
reap some advantage again from the theater, will always find 
himself at a disadvantage, and the musician will be in the same 



JOHAXX WOLFGANG VOX GOETHE. 161 

case. The arts seem to me like so many sisters, of wliom the 
greater number have been disposed to economy, but one of trivial 
disposition has had a mind to appropriate the possessions and 
property of the whole family. The theater is in this situation ; 
it has an ambiguous origin, which, whether as art or handicraft 
or dilettanteism, it can never wholly disguise." 

Wilhelm looked down with a deep sigh, for all the enjoyment 
and the sorrow that he had had from and on the stage were sud- 
denly present to him. He blessed the good men who were wise 
enough to spare their pupils such pain, who, from conviction and 
principle, banished these perils from their circle. 

His conductor, however, did not leave him long to these medi- 
tations, but proceeded: "As it is our highest and holiest princi- 
ple to misdirect no disposition or talent, we cannot hide from 
ourselves the fact, that amongst so great a number, a natural 
mimetic gift may very likely be decisively displayed. This, how- 
ever, shows itself in an irrepressible desire to ^pe the characters, 
figures, motion, and speech of others. This we do not encourage, 
it is true, but we observe the pupil carefully, and if he remains 
throughout true to his nature, we have put ourselves in connec- 
tion with the large theaters of all nations, and thither we send 
anyone of tried capacity, in order that, like the duck upon the 
pond, he may with all speed be guided on the stage to the future 
waddling and quacking of his life." 

Wilhelm listened to this with patience, yet only with partial 
conviction, and perhaps with some annoyance ; for so wonder- 
fully is man minded, that whilst he is really persuaded of the 
worthlessness of some favorite subject or other, and will turn 
aw^ay from, and even execrate himself, yet still he will not bear 
to have it treated in the same way by anyone else, and prob- 
ably the spirit of contradiction which dwells in all mankind 
is never more vigorously and effectively excited than in such a 
case. 

The editor of these papers may even confess that he allows 
this w^onderful passage to pass with some reluctance. Has he 
not, too, in many senses devoted more than a due share of life 

T. L.— 11 



162 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and strength to the theater? and would it be easy to convince 
him that this has been an inexcusable error, a fruitless exertion? 

However, we have not time to apply ourselves ill-humoredly to 
such recollections and underlying feelings, for our friend finds 
himself agreeably surprised on seeing before him, once more, one 
of the Three, and one especially sympathetic. A communicative 
gentleness, telling of the purest peace of soul, imparted itself 
most revivingly: the Wanderer could approach him trustfully, 
and feel that his trust was returned. 

He now learned that the Superior was at present in the sanc- 
tuary, and was there instructing, teaching, and blessing, whilst 
the Three arranged severally to visit all the regions, and in every 
place — after obtaining the most minute information, and arrang- 
ing with the subordinate overseers to carry forward what had 
been begun— to establish what had been newly determined, and 
thus faithfully fulfill their high duty. 

This excellent man it was who gave him a more general view 
of their internal economy and external connections, as well as a 
knowledge of the reciprocal effect of all the different regions; nor 
did he fail to make clear how a pupil could be transferred from 
one to the other after a longer or shorter period. Enough, every- 
thing fully harmonized with what he already knew. At the same 
time, the account given of his son was a source of great satisfac- 
tion, and the plan on which they intended to proceed with him 
must needs obtain his entire approbation. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 

1783-1859. 

Washington Irving, one of the earliest and most distinguished of 
American authors, was born in New York in 1783 and died in 1859 at 
Sunnyside, iiis unique and delightful home on the Hudson. Educated 
with a view to the legal profession, he subsequently turned his attention 
wholly to literature, as a work more congenial to his taste and inclina- 
tions. Few authors of his age or of any time have won so strong a 
place in, the hearts of the different classes of people as Washington Irv- 
ing. With a style especially pleasing and one peculiarly his own, and 
possessing a versatility as happily suited to his early environments as to 
the more classic needs of the other lands in which he afterwards resided 
for many years, it is natural perhaps that his books should become more 
generally known and more widely read in Europe than those of other 
American authors. His contributions to the Morning Chronicle, 
edited by his brother, Dr. Irving, marked the commencement of his liter- 
ary career, and in 1807 he began the publication of Salmagundi, a 
semi-monthly periodical of satirical miscellany, which, although exceed- 
ingly popular, was discontinued before the expiration of its second year. 
The "Knickerbocker's History of New York," issued in 1809, displayed 
still more his talents as an historian, and aided largely in establishing 
his reputation as a writer, not only in this country but abroad, and the 
*• Sketch Book," which followed soon after, added still further to his 
fame. His subsequent publications, " Bracebridge Hall," "Conquest of 
Grenada," "Life of Columbus," " Life of Goldsmith," "Life of Washing- 
ton," "Mahomet and his Successor," are all productions of exceptional 
merit and wide popularity. 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

Other writers may no doubt arise in the course of time, who will ex- 
hibit in verse or prose a more commanding talent, and soar a still loftier 
flight in the empyrean sky of glory. Some western Homer, Shakespeare, 
Milton, Corneille, or Calderon, may irradiate our literary world with a 
flood of splendor that shall throw all other greatness into the shade. 
This, or something like it, mayor may not happen ; but even if it should, 
it can never be disputed that the mild and beautiful genius of Mr. Irving 

(163) 



164 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

was the Morning Star that led up the march of our heavenly host; and 
that he has a fair right, much fairer certainly than the great Mantuan, 
to assume the proud device, " Primus ego in patriam." 

Alexander H. Everett. 

Ichabod Crane. 

(From "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.") 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the 
eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the 
river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan. 
Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
the protection of Saint Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a 
small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greens- 
burgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in. 
former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, 
from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about 
the village tavern on market-days. Be that as it may, I do not 
vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being 
precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 
two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among 
high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to 
lull one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tap- 
ping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks 
in upon the uniform tranquility. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel 
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side 
of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all 
nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own 
gun as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged 
and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for 
a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distrac- 
tions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char- 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 165 

acter of its inlia bit ants, who are descendants from the original 
Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the 
name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy 
Hollow Bojs throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, 
dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the 
very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a 
high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; 
others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, 
held his powwows there before the country was discovered by 
Master Hen d rick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues 
under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over 
the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a contin- 
ual revery. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are 
subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights 
and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood 
abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight supersti- 
tions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley 
than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with 
her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of 
the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a 
head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, 
whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some 
nameless battle during the Revolutionary War ; and who is ever 
and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom 
of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not 
confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great dis- 
tance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those 
parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the float- 
ing facts concerning this specter, allege that, the body of the 
trooper having been buried in the church-yard, the ghost rides 
forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that 
the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hoi- 



166 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

low, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a 
hurry to get back to the church-yard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which 
has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of 
shadows; and the specter is known, at all the country firesides, 
by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity 1 have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, 
but is uncansciously imbibed by everyone who resides there for a 
time. However wide-awake they may have been before they 
entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to 
inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative, — to dream dreams and see apparitions. 

I mentioned this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is 
in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embos- 
omed in the great state of New York, that population, manners, 
and customs remain fixed; while the great torrent of migration 
and improvement which is making such incessant changes in 
other parts of this restless country sweeps by them unobserved. 
They are like those little nooks of still water which border a 
rapid stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding 
quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, 
undisturbed by the rush of the passage current. Though many 
years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hol- 
low, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees 
and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of 
American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned, 
or, as he expressed it, ''tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the pur- 
pose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native 
of Connecticut — a state which supplies the Union with pioneers 
for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The 
cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was 
tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 167 

legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might 
have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung 
together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which 
way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill 
on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about 
him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine 
descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely 
constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly 
patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously 
secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the 
door, and stakes set against the window-shutters ; so that, 
though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some 
embarrassment in getting out— an idea most probably borrowed 
by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mysterj^ of an eel- 
pot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant 
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running 
close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. 
From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over 
their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, hke the 
hum of a beehive, interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or per- 
ad venture, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some 
tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the 
golden maxim, ''Spare the rod, and spoil the child." Ichabod 
Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their 
subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimi- 
nation rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of 
the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
stripling that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 



168 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by in- 
flicting a double portion on some little tough, w^rong-headed, 
broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew 
dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called ''doing 
his duty by their parents; " and he never inflicted a chastisement 
without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
smarting urchin, that '' he would rem^ember it, and thank him for 
it, the longest day he had to live." 

When school-hours were over he was even the companion and 
playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would 
convoy some of the smaller ones home who happened to have 
pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the 
comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on 
good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school 
was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had 
the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his main- 
tenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, 
boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children 
he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time; 
thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly 
effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic 
patrons, who are apt to consider the cost of schooling a grievous 
burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various w^ays 
of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the 
farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms; helped 
to make hay; mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove 
the cows from pasture; cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, 
too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he 
lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully 
gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the 
mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and 
like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did 
hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with 
his foot for whole hours together. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 169 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
of the neighborhood, and picked np many bright shilhngs by 
instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no 
little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of 
the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his 
own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. 
Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the con- 
gregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in 
that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to 
the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Icha- 
bod Crane. Thus by divers little make-shifts in that ingenious 
way which is commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," 
the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, 
by all who understood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have 
a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
the female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a 
kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste 
and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, there- 
fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm- 
house, and the addition of a supernumary dish of cakes or 
sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles 
of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in 
the church-yard, between services on Sundays I gathering grapes 
for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees ; 
reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; 
or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of 
the adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country "bump- 
kins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and 
address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to 
house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- 



170 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

tion. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of 
great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, 
and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's "History of New 
England Witchcraft " — in which, by the way, he most firmly and 
potently believed. 

He was, in fact, a mixture of small shrewdness and simple 
credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of 
digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been in- 
creased by .his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was 
too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often 
his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to 
stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little 
brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old 
Mather's direful tales until the gathering dusk of the evening 
made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he 
wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to 
the farm-house, where he happened to be quartered, every sound 
of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagina- 
tion, — the moan of the whippoorwill from the hill-side; the bod- 
ing cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary 
hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket 
of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which 
sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then 
startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across 
his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was 
ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with 
a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm- 
tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by 
their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing 
his nasal melody, in "linked sweetness longdrawn out," fioating 
from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they sat spinning by 
the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 171 

hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and gob- 
lins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted 
bridges, G.nd haunted houses, and particularly of the headless 
horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous 
sights and sounds in the air which prevailed in the earlier times 
of Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully with specula- 
tions upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming 
fact that the world did absolutely turn round; and that they 
were half the time topsy-turvy ! 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

1786-1855. 

Mary Russell Mitfoed was born at Arlesford, England, in 1786, 
and died in 1855. She retains an honorable place in English literature 
as the authoress of "Our Village," a series of sketches of village scenes 
and character, unsurpassed in their kind, and after half a century of 
imitations as fresh as if they had been written yesterday. Washington 
Irving was Miss Mitford's literary model, but her work is thoroughly 
original and spontaneous, the free outflow of a singularly charming 
character. In the preface of "Our Village," Miss Mitford saj^s: "The 
writer may at least claim the credit of a hearty love of her subject, and 
of that local and personal familiarity which only a long residence in one 
neighborhood could have enabled her to attain. Her descriptions have 
always been written on the spot and at the moment, and in nearly every 
Instance with the closest and most a.bsolute fidelity to the place and the 
people." 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

The accompanying extract from "Xoctes Ambrosianse," in BJnck- 
wood's Magazine, by Professor John Wilson, hapjnly expresses the 
measure of Miss Mitford's writings by her contemporaries — Christopher 
North representing Professor Wilson and Shepherd the Scottish poet 
James Hogg, best known by his literary title, the "Ettrick Shepherd." 

Tickler. " Master Christopher North, there's Miss Mitford, author of 
^ Our Village,' an admirable person in all respects, of whom you have 
never, to my recollection, taken any notice in the magazine. What is 
the meaning of that? Is it an oversight? Or have you omitted her 
name intentionally from your eulogies on our female worthies?" 

North. "I am waiting for her second volume. Miss Mitford has 
not, in my opinion, either the pathos or humor of Washington Irving; 
but she excels him in vigorous conception of character, and in the truth 
of her pictures of English life and manners. Her writings breathe a 
sound, pure, and healthy morality, and are pervaded by a genuine rural 
spirit — the spirit of merry England. Every line bespeaks the lady." 

Shepherd. "I admire Miss Mitford just excessively. I dinna wunner 

at her being able to w^rite sae weel as she does about drawing-rooms, 

wi' sofas and settees, and about the fine folk in them, seein themsels in 

lookin-glasses frae tap to tae; but what puzzles the like o' me is her pic- 

(172) 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 173 

tures o" poachers, and tinklers, and pottery-trampers, and ither neerdo- 
weels, and o' huts and hovels without riggin* by the wayside, and the 
cottages o" honest puir men, and byres, t and barns, and stack-yards, 
and merry-makins at winter ingles, and courtship aneath trees, and at 
the gable ends o' farm-houses, atween lads and lasses as laigh$ in life- 
as the servants in her father's ha'. That's the puzzle and that's the- 
praise." 

The Village Schoolmistress. 

(From "Our Village.") 

Women, fortunately perhaps for their happiness and their 
virtue, have, as compared with men, so few opportunities of 
acquiring permanent distinction, that it is rare to find a female, 
unconnected with literature or with history, whose name is 
remembered after her monument is defaced, and the brass on 
her coffin-lid is corroded. Such, however, was the case with 
Dame Eleanor, the widow of Sir Kichard Lacv, whose name, at 
the end of three centuries, continued to be as freshly and as fre- 
quently spoken, as "familiar" a "household word," in the little 
village of Aberleigh, as if she had flourished there yesterday. 
Her memory w^as embalmed by a deed of charity and of good- 
ness. She had founded and endowed a girls' school for "the 
instruction [to use the words of the deed] of twenty poor 
children, and the maintenance of one discreet and godly 
matron;" and the school still continued to be called after its 
foundress, and the very spot on wdiich the schoolhouse stood, 
to be known by the name of Lady Lacy's Green. 

It was a spot worthy of its destination — a spot of remarkable 
cheerfulness and beauty. The Green was small, of irregular 
shape, and situate at a confluence of shady lanes. Half the 
roads and paths of the parish met there, probably for the con- 
venience of crossing in that place, by a stone bridge of one arch 
covered with ivy, the winding rivulet which intersected the w^hole 
village, and w^hich, sweeping in a narrow channel round the 
school garden, widened into a stream of some consequence in 
the richly-w-ooded meadows beyond. The banks of the brook, 

* Roofs. i Sheds. JLow. 



174 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

as it wound its glittering course over the green, were set, here 
and there, with clumps of forest trees, chiefly bright green elms, 
and aspens with their quivering leaves and their pale shining 
bark ; whilst a magnificent beech stood alone near the gate lead- 
ing to the school, partly overshadowing the little court in which 
the house was placed. The building itself was a beautiful small 
structure, in the ornamented style of Elizabeth's day, with 
pointed roofs and pinnacles, and clustered chimneys, and case- 
ment windows ; the whole house enwreathed and garlanded by 
a most luxuriant vine. 

The date of the erection, 1563, was cut in a stone inserted in 
the brick-work above the porch; but the foundress had, with an 
unostentatious modesty, withheld her name ; leaving it, as she 
safely might, to tlie grateful recollection of the successiv^e gen- 
erations who profited by her benevolence. Altogether it was a 
most gratifying scene to the eye and to the hearts No one ever 
saw Lady Lacy's schoolhouse without admiration, especially in 
the play-hour at noon, when the children, freed from "restraint 
that sweetens liberty," were clustered under the old beech-tree, 
reveling in their innocent freedom, running, jumping, shouting, 
and laughing with all their might : the only sort of riot which it 
is pleasant to witness. The painter and the philanthropist 
might contemplate that scene with equal delight. 

The right of appointing both the mistress and the scholars 
had been originally invested in the Lacy family, to whom nearly 
the whole of the parish had at one time belonged. But the 
estates, the manor, the hall-house, had long passed into other 
hands and other names, and this privilege of charity was now 
the only possession which the heirs of Lady Lacy retained in 
Aberleigh. Reserving to themselves the right of nominating the 
matron, her descendants had therefore delegated to the vicar 
and the parish officers the selection of the children, and the 
general regulation of the school — a sort of council of regency, 
which, simple and peaceful as the government seems, a disputa- 
tious churchwarden or a sturdy overseer would sometimes con- 
trive to render sufficiently stormy. I have known as much 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 175 

canvassing and almost as much ill-will in a contested election 
for one of Lady Lacy's scholarships, as for a scholarship in 
grander places, or even for an M. P. -ship in the next borough; 
and the great schism between the late Farmer Brookes and all 
his coadjutors, as to whether the original uniform of little green 
stuff gowns, with white bibs and aprons, tippets and mob, should 
be commuted for modern cotton frocks and cottage bonnets, 
fairlj^ set the parish by the ears. Owing to the good farmer's 
glorious obstinacy (which 1 suppose he called firmness), the 
green-gownians lost the day. I believe that, as a matter of cal- 
culation, the man might be right, and that his costume was 
cheaper and more convenient ; but I am sure that I should have 
been against him, right or wrong ; the other dress was so pretty, 
so primitive, so neat, so becomiug; the little lasses looked like 
rose-buds in the midst of their leaves; besides, it was the old 
traditionary dress — the dress contrived and approved by Lady 
Lacy. Oh! it should never have been changed, never ! 

Since there was so much contention in the election of pupils, it 
was perhaps lucky for the vestry that the exercise of the more 
splendid piece of patronage, the appointment of a mistress, did 
not enter into its duties. Mr. Lacy, the representative of the 
foundress, a man of fortune in a distant county, generally 
bestowed the situation on some old dependant of his family. 
During the churchwardenship of Farmer Brookes, no less than 
three village gouvernantes arrived at Aberleigh — a quick succes- 
sion ! It made more than half the business of our zealous and bust- 
ling man of office, an amateur in such matters, to instruct and 
overlook them. The first importation was Dame Whitaker, a per- 
son of no small importance, who had presided as head nurse over 
two generations of the Lacys, and was now, on the dispersion of 
the last set of her nurslings to their different schools , and an unlucky 
quarrel with a favorite lady's maid, promoted and banished to 
this distant government. Nobody could well be more unfit for 
her new station, or better suited to her old. She was a nurse 
from top to toe, round, portly, smiling, with a coaxing voice, and 
an indolent manner; much addicted to snuff and green tea, to 



176 TFIE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

sitting still, to telling long stories, and to humoring children. 
She spoiled every brat she came near, just as she had been used 
to spoil the little Master Edwards and Miss Julias of her ancient 
dominions. She could not have scolded if she would— the gift was 
not in her. Under her misrule the school grew into sad disorder ; 
the girls not only learned nothing, but unlearned what they 
knew before; work was lost — even the new shifts of the Vicar's 
lady; books were torn; and for the climax of evil, no sampler* 
was prepared to carry round at Christmas, from house to house — 
the first time such an omission had occurred within the memory 
of man. 

Farmer Brookes was at his wits' end. He visited the school 
six days in the week, to admonish and reprove; he even went nigh 
to threaten that he would work a sampler himself; and finally 
bestowed on the unfortunate ex-nurse the nick-name of Queen 
Log,t a piece of disrespect, which, together with other grievances, 
proved so annoying to poor Dame Whitaker, that she found the 
air of Aberleigh disagree with her, patched up a peace with her 
old enemy the lady's maid, abdicated that unruly and rebellious 
principality, the school, and retired with great delight to her 
quiet home in the deserted nursery, where, as far as I know, she 
still remains. 

The grief of the children on losing this most indulgent non- 
instructress was not mitigated by the appearance or demeanoi* 
of her successor, who at first seemed a preceptress after Farmer 
Brookes's own heart, a perfect Queen Stork. Dame Banks was 
the widow of Mr. Lacy's gamekeeper; a little thin woman, with 
a hooked nose, a sharp voice, and a prodigious activity of 
tongue. She scolded all day long; and, for the first week, passed 
for a great teacher. After that time it began to be discovered 
that, in spite of her lessons, the children did not learn; notwith- 
standing her rating they did not mind, and in the midst of a 
continual bustle nothing was ever done. Dame Banks was in 



* Needle-work, letters, etc. 

i This refers to ^sop's fable of the frogs petitioning for a king and receiving 
a log. 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 177 

fact a well-intentioned, worthy woman, with a restless, irritable 
temper, a strong desire to do her duty, and a woeful ignorance 
how to set about it. She was rather too old to be taught either; 
at least she required a gentler instructor than the good church- 
warden; and so much ill-will was springing up between them 
that he had even been heard to regret the loss of Dame Whita- 
ker's quietness, when very suddenly poor Dame Banks fell ill, 
and died. The sword had worn the scabbard ; but she was better 
than she seemed; a thoroughly well-meaning woman— grateful, 
pious, and charitable; even our man of oflBce admitted this. 

The next in succession was one with whom my trifling pen, 
dearly as that light and fluttering instrument loves to dally and 
disport over the surface of things, must take no saucy freedom ; 
one of whom we all felt it impossible to speak or to think with- 
out respect; one who made Farmer Brookes's office of adviser a 
sinecure, by putting the whole school, himself included, into its 
proper place, setting everybody in order, and keeping them so. 
I don't know how she managed, unless by good sense and good 
humor, and that happy art of government, which seems no art 
at all, because it is so perfect; but the children were busy and 
happy, the vestry pleased, and the churchwarden contented. All 
went well under Mrs. Allen. 

She w^as an elderly woman, nearer perhaps to seventy than to 
sixty, and of an exceedingly venerable and prepossessing appear- 
ance. Delicacy was her chief characteristic— a delicacy so com- 
plete that it pervaded her whole person, from her tall, slender 
figure, her fair, faded complexion, and her silver hair, to the 
exquisite nicety of dress by which at all hours and seasons, from 
Sunday morning to Saturday night, she was invariably distin- 
guished. The soil of the day was never seen on her apparel; 
dust would not cling to her snowy caps and handkerchiefs; such 
was the art magic of her neatness. Her very pins did their office 
in a different manner from those belonging to other people. Her 
manner was gentle, cheerful, and courteous, with a simplicity and 
propriety of expression that perplexed all listeners; it seemed so 
exactly what belongs to the highest birth and highest breeding. 

T. L.— 12 



178 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

She was humble, very humble; but her humility was evidently 
the result of a truly Christian spirit, and would equally have dis- 
tinguished her in any station. The poor people, always nice 
Judges of behavior, felt, they did not know why, that she was 
their superior; the gentry of the neighborhood suspected her to 
be their equal— some clergyman's or officer's widow, reduced in 
circumstances; and would have treated her as such, had she not, 
on discovering their mistake, eagerly undeceived them. She had 
been, she said, all her life a servant, the personal attendant of 
one dear mistress, on whose decease she had been recommended 
to Mr. Lacy ; and to his kindness, under Providence, was indebted 
for a home and a provision for her helpless age, and the still more 
helpless youth of a poor orphan, far dearer to her than herself. 
This avowal, although it changed the character of the respect 
-paid to Mrs. Allen, was certainly not calculated to diminish its 
amount; and the new mistress of Lady Lacy's school, and the 
beautiful order of her house and garden, continued to be the pride 
and admiration of Aberleigh. 

The orphan of whom she spoke was a little girl about eleven 
years old, who lived with her, and whose black frock bespoke the 
recent death of some relative. She had lately, Mrs. Allen said, 
lost her grandmother — her only remaining parent, and had now 
no friend but herself on earth ; but there was One above who was 
a Father to the fatherless, and He would protect poor Jane! 
And as she said this, there was a touch of emotion, a break of 
the voice, a tremor on the lip, very unlike the usual cheerfulness 
and self-command of her manner. The child was evidently very 
dear to her. Jane was, indeed, a most interesting creature; not 
pretty — a girl of that age seldom is; the beauty of childhood is 
outgrown, that of youth not come; and Jane could scarcely ever 
have had any other pretensions to prettiness than the fine expres- 
sion of her dark gray eyes, and thegeneral sweetness of her coun- 
tenance. She was pale, thin, and delicate; serious and thought- 
ful far beyond her years; averse from play, and shrinking from 
notice. Her fondness for Mrs. Allen, and her constant and unre- 
mitting attention to her health and comforts, were peculiarly 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 179 

remarkable. Every part of their small housewifery, that her 
height and strength and skill would enable her to perform, she 
insisted on doing, and many things far beyond her power she 
attempted. Never was so industrious or so handy a little maiden. 
Old Nelly Chun, the char- woman, who went once a week to the 
house, to wash and bake and scour, declared that Jane did more 
than herself; and to all who knew Nelly's opinion of her own 
doings, this praise appeared superlative. 

In the schoolroom she was equally assiduous, not as a learner, 
but as a teacher. None so clever as Jane in superintending the 
different exercises of the needle, the spelling-book and the slate. 
From the little work- woman's first attempt to insert thread into 
a pocket handkerchief, the digging and plowing of cambric, mis- 
called hemming, up to the nice and delicate mysteries of stitching 
and button-holing; from the easy junction of a b, ah, and b a, 
ba,, to that tremendous sesquipedalian word irrefragability, at 
which even I tremble as I write ; from the Numeration Table to 
Practice, nothing came amiss to her. In figures she was particu- 
larly quick. Generally speaking, her patience with the other 
children, however dull or tiresome or giddy they might be, was 
exemplary ; but a false accountant, a stupid arithmetician, would 
put her out of humor. The only time I ever heard her sweet, 
gentle voice raised a note above its natural key, was in repri- 
manding Susan Wheeler, a sturdy, square-made, rosy-cheeked 
lass, as big again as herself, the dunce and beauty of the school, 
who had three times cast up a sum of three figures, and three 
times made the total wrong. Jane ought to have admired the 
ingenuity evinced by such a variety of error; but she did not; 
it fairly put her in a passion. She herself was not only clever in 
figures, but fond of them to an extraordinary degree — luxuriated 
in Long Division, and reveled in the Kule-of-Three. Had she 
been a boy, she would probably have been a great mathemati- 
cian, and have won that fickle, fleeting, shadowy wreath, that 
crown made of the rainbow, that vainest of all earthly pleasures, 
but which yet is a pleasure— Fame. 

Happier, far happier was the good, the lowly, the pious child. 



180 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

in her humble duties ! Grave and quiet as she seemed, she had 
many moments of intense and placid enjoyment, when the duties 
of the day were over, and she sat reading in the porch, by the 
side of Mrs. Allen, or walked with her in the meadows on a Sun- 
day evening after church. Jane was certainly contented and 
happy ; and yet every one that saw her thought of her with that 
kind of interest which is akin to pity. There was a pale, fragile 
grace about her, such as we sometimes see in a rose which has 
blown in the shade ; or rather, to change the simile, the drooping 
and delicate look of a tender plant removed from a hothouse to 
the open air. We could not help feeling sure (notwithstanding 
our mistake with regard to Mrs. Allen) that this was indeed a 
transplanted flower; and that the village school, however excel- 
lently her habits had become inured to her situation, was not her 
proper atmosphere. 

Several circumstances corroborated our suspicions. IVIy lively 
young friend Sophia Grey, standing with me one day at the gate 
of the schoolhouse, where I had been talking with Mrs. Allen, 
remarked to me, in French, the sly, demure vanity with which 
Susan Wheeler, whose beauty had attracted her attention, was 
observing and returning her glances. The playful manner in 
which Sophia described Susan's "regard furtif," made me smile; 
and looking accidentally at Jane, I saw that she was smiling too, 
clearly comprehending and enjoying the full force of the pleas- 
antry. She must understand French; and when questioned, she 
confessed she did, and thankfully accepted the loan of books in 
that language. Another time, being sent on a message to the 
vicarage, and left for some minutes alone in the parlor, with a 
piano standing open in the room, she could not resist the temp- 
tation of touching the keys, and was discovered playing an air 
of Mozart, with great taste and execution. At this detection she 
blushed, as if caught in a crime, and hurried away in tears and 
without her message. It was clear that she had once learned 
music. But the surest proof that Jane's original station had been 
higher than that which she now filled, was the mixture of respect 
and fondness with which Mrs. Allen treated her, and the deep regret 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 181 

she sometimes testified at seeing her employed in any menial 
ofiice. 

At last, elicited by some warm praise of the charming child, 
our good schoolmistress disclosed her story. Jane Mowbray 
was the granddaughter of the lady in whose service Mrs. Allen 
had passed her life. Her father had been a man of high family 
and splendid fortune; had married beneath himself, as it was 
called, a friendless orphan, with no portion but beauty and vir- 
tue; and, on her death, which followed shortly on the birth of 
her daughter, had plunged into every kind of vice and extrava- 
gance. What need to tell a tale of sin and suffering? 

Mr. Mowbray had ruined himself, had ruined all belonging to 
him, and finally had joined our armies abroad as a volunteer, 
and had fallen undistinguished in his first battle. The news of 
his death was fatal to his indulgent mother ; and when she too 
died, Mrs. Allen blessed the Providence which, by throwing in her 
way a recommendation to Lady Lacy's school, had enabled her 
to support the dear object of her mistress's love and prayers. 
"Had Miss Mowbray no connections?" was the natural ques- 
tion. "Yes; one very near — an aunt, the sister of her father, 
richly married in India. But Sir William was a proud and a 
stern man, upright in his own conduct, and implacable to error. 
Lady Ely was a sweet, gentle creature, and doubtless would be 
glad to extend a mother's protection to the orphan; but Sir 
William— oh! he was so unrelenting! He had abjured Mr. Mow- 
bray, and all connected with him. She had written to inform 
them where the dear child was, but had no expectation of any 
answer from India." 

Time verified this prediction. The only tidings from India, 
at all interesting to Jane Mowbray, were contained in the para- 
graph of a newspaper which announced Lady Ely's death, and 
put an end to all hopes of protection from that quarter. Years 
passed on, and found her still with Mrs. Allen at Lady Lacy's 
Green, more and more beloved and respected from day to day. 
She had now attained almost to womanhood. Strangers, I 
believe, called her plain; we, who knew her, thought her pretty. 



182 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Her figure was tall and straight as a cypress, pliant and flexible 
as a willow, full of gentle grace, whether in repose or in motion. 
She had a profusion of light brown hair, a pale complexion, dark 
gray eyes, a smile of which the character was rather sweet than 
gay, and such a countenance! no one could look at her without 
wishing her well, or without being sure that she deserved all 
good wishes. 

Her manners were modest and elegant, and she had much of the 
self-taught knowledge, which is, of all knowledge, the surest and 
the best, because acquired with most diflBculty, and fixed in the 
memory by the repetition of effort. Everyone had assisted her to 
the extent of his power and of her willingness to accept assistance; 
for both she and Mrs. Allen had a pride— call it independence— 
which rendered it impossible, even to the friends who were most hon- 
ored by their good opinion, to be as useful to them as they could 
have wished. To give Miss Mowbray time for improvement had, 
however, proved a powerful emollient to the pride of our dear 
schoolmistress ; and that time had been so well employed that 
her acquirements were considerable ; whilst in mind and charac- 
ter she was truly admirable; mild, grateful, and affectionate, 
and imbued with a deep religious feeling, which infiuenced every 
action and pervaded every thought. So gifted, she was deemed 
by her constant friends, the vicar and his lady, perfectly compe- 
tent to the care and education of children; it was agreed that 
she should enter a neighboring family, as a successor to their 
then governess, early in the ensuing spring; and she, although 
sad at the prospect of leaving her aged protectress, acquiesced 
in their decision. 

One fine Sunday in the October preceding this dreaded separa- 
tion, as Miss Mowbray, with Mrs. Allen leaning on her arm, was 
slowly following the little train of Lady Lacy's scholars from 
church, an elderly gentleman, sickly-looking and emaciated, 
accosted a pretty young woman, who was loitering with some 
other girls at the church-yard gate, and asked her several ques- 
tions respecting the school and its mistress. Susan Wheeler (for 
it happened to be our old acquaintance) was delighted to be 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, 183 

singled out by so grand a gentleman, and being a kind-hearted crea- 
ture in the main, spoke of the schoolhouse and its inhabitants 
exactly as they deserved. 

" Mrs. Allen," she said, " was the best woman in the world — the 
very best, except just Miss Mowbray, who was better still, — only 
too particular about summing, which you know, sir," added 
Susan, "people can't learn, if they can't. She is going to be a 
governess in the spring," continued the loquacious damsel; " and 
it's to be hoped the little ladies will take kindly to their tables, 
or it will be a sad grievance to Miss Jane."— "A governess! 
Where can I make inquiries concerning Miss Mowbray?" — "At 
the vicarage, sir," answered Susan, dropping her little courtesy, 
and turning away, well pleased with the gentleman's condescen- 
sion, and with half a crown which he had given her in return for 
her intelligence. The stranger, meanwhile, walked straight to 
the vicarage, and in less than half an hour the vicar repaired 
with him to Lady Lacy's Green. 

This stranger, so drooping, so sickly, so emaciated, was the 
proud Indian uncle, the stern Sir William Ely! Sickness and 
death had been busy with him and with his. He had lost his 
health, his wife, and his children; and softened by affliction, 
was returned to England a new man, anxious to forgive and 
to be forgiven, and, above all, desirous to repair his neglect and 
injustice towards the only remaining relative of the wife whom 
he had so fondly loved and so tenderly lamented. In this 
frame of mind, such a niece as Jane Mowbray was welcomed 
with no common joy. His delight in her, and his gratitude 
towards her protectress, were unbounded. He wished them both 
to accompany him home, and reside with him constantly. 
Jane promised to do so; but Mrs. Allen, with her usual admi- 
rable feeling of propriety, clung to the spot which had been to 
her a " city of refuge," and refused to leave it in spite of all the 
entreaties of uncle and of niece. It was a happy decision for Aber- 
leigh; for what could Aberleigh have done without its good 
schoolmistress ! 

She lives there still, its ornament and its pride; and every 



184 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

year Jane Mowbray comes for a long visit, and makes a holi- 
day in the school and in the whole place. Jane Mowbray, did 
I say? No! not Jane Mowbray now. She has changed that 
dear name for the only name that could be dearer — she is 
married — married to the eldest son of Mr. Lacy, the lineal rep- 
resentative of Dame Eleanor Lacy, the honored foundress of 
the school. It was in a voice tremulous more from feeling than 
from age, that Mrs. Allen welcomed the young heir, when he 
brought his fair bride to Aberleigh; and it was with a yet 
stronger and deeper emotion that the bridegroom, with his own 
Jane in his hand, visited the asylum which she and her venerable 
guardian owed to the benevolence and the piety of his ancestress, 
whose good deeds had thus showered down blessings on her 
remote posterity. 

Dr. Courtly's School. 

(^f^rom a charade in " Our Village.") 

A fashionable Morning Rbom. — Mr. and Mrs. Apperley at break- 
fast. — Mr. Apperley lays down the newspaper. 

Mr. App. Mrs. Apperley, my dear, I want to speak to you on 
a subject on which, as a mother, you have every right to be 
consulted ; the more especially as, from your excellent sense, I 
have no doubt of your being entirely of my opinion. John 
grows a great boy. 

Mrs. App. Poor fellow ! Yes, He'll be ten years old the fif- 
teenth of next month. Time slips away, Mr. Apperley. 

Mr. App. Ten years old next month ! It's high time that he 
should be taken from Mr. Lynn's. These preparatory schools 
are good things for little boys; but a lad of ten years old requires 
to be more tightly kept. 

Mrs. App. Just my opinion, Mr. Apperley. The sooner you 
remove the poor boy from Mr. Lynn's the better. They don't take 
half the care of him that they ought to do. Only yesterday, when 
I called there, I found him playing at cricket without his hat — 
really without his hat! — in the middle of that wind, and so deli- 
cate as John is, too 1 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 185 

Mr. App, Delicate! Pshaw! There never was anything the 
matter with the child but your coddling, Mrs. Apperley; and 
Eton will soon cure him of that. 

Mrs. App. Eton ! Do you mean to send John to Eton ? 

Mr. App. To be sure I do. 

Mrs. App. Our sweet John, our only son, our only child, to 
Eton? 

Mr. App. Certainly. 

Mrs. App. Never with my consent, I promise you, Mr. 
Apperley. 

Mr. App. And why not, Mrs. Apperley? 

Mrs. App. Just look at the boys; that's all. Did not the 
Duchess tell me herself that the poor little Marquis came home 
with only one skirt to his jacket, and his brother Lord Edward 
with scarcely a shoe to his foot? There's a pretty plight for you, 
Mr. Apperley I Think of our John with his toes through his shoes, 
and half a skirt to his jacket ! 

Mr. App. Pshaw ! 

Mrs. App. Then such rude graceless pickles as they come back, 
with their manners more out at elbows than their clothes. 

Mr. App. Pshaw ! 

Mrs. App. Then the dangers they run ! — to be killed by a 
cricket-ball, or drowned in the Thames, or 

Mr. App. Pshaw! Mrs. Apperley. Where now, in your wis- 
dom, would you send the boy? 

Mrs. App. To Dr. Courtly. 

Mr. App. And pray who is Dr. Courtly? 

Mrs. App. Did you never hear of Dr. Courtly's establishment 
for young gentlemen? — never hear of Dr. Courtly ! — So elegant, so 
comfortable, taken such care of; linen clean twice a day; hair 
curled every morning ; almond paste to wash their hands ; china 
dinner-service; silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. — Just ten 
miles off, only fourteen pupils, and happens to have a vacancy. 
Pray send John to Dr. Courtly, Mr. Apperley. 

Mr. App. And so make a coxcomb of the boy before his time ! 
Not I, truly. Leave the hair-curling and the almond-paste to the 



186 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

instinct of eighteen. In the meanwhile I choose that he should 
learn Latin and Greek ,• and for that purpose I shall send him to 
Eton. 

Mrs. App. Lord, Mr. Apperley ! what is a man the better for 
that nonsense? You are an Etonian yourself, and pray tell me 
now what good has your scholarship ever done you? What use 
have you made of it? 

Mr. App. Hem ! That's a point which ladies can't understand, 
and had better not talk about, Mrs. Apperley ! 

Mrs. App. Have you ever, during the eleven years that we 
have been married, read a single page of Greek or Latin, Mr. 
Apperley ? 

Mr. App. Hem ! Why, really, my dear 

Mrs. App. Or indeed a page of anything, except the news- 
papers and the Waverley novels? 

Mr. App. How can you say so, Mrs. Apperley? 

Mrs. App. Why, what do you read ? 

Mr. App. Hem! The Quarterly — I generally look over the 
Quarterly, and Pepys — I dipped into Pepys; and the magazines, 
Mrs. Apperley ! Don't I turn over the magazines as regularly as 
the month comes? And, in short, if you could but imagine the 

Attic zest, the classical relish, with which a sound scholar but 

this, as I said before, is what you ladies can't understand, and 
had better not talk about. John shall go to Eton; that's my 
determination. 

Mrs. App. He shall go to Dr. Courtly's; that's mine. How 
can you b6 so barbarous, Mr. Apperley, as to think of sending 
John to such a place as Eton, subject as he is to chilblains, and 
the winter coming on? Now the Doctor has studied surgery, 
and dresses 

Mr. App. Hang the Doctor, and hang John's chilblains. The 
boy shall go to Eton.— That's my last word, Mrs. Apperley. 

Mrs. App. If he does, he'll be dead in a week. But he shan't 
go to Eton— that's my resolution. And we shall see who'll have 
the last word, Mr. Apperley— we shall see ! 

[Exeunt separately. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 

1816-1855. 

Charlotte Bronte, an English novelist of great originality, was 
born at Thornton, in Yorkshire, in 1816. "When only five years old she 
was left motherless, with the household in charge of a sister less than 
three years her senior, and on the death of the latter four years later she 
was obliged to assume a similar responsibility and the care of the two sis- 
ters and one brother still younger. They saw little of their father, whose 
health was bad, and who seems to have been eccentric in his modes of 
thinking and acting. Utterly deprived of all companions of their own 
age, with none of the usual outlets for their pent-up energies, they lived 
in a little world of their own. The harsh realities around them, the bleak 
scenery, the coarse and rugged natures of the few inhabitants with whom 
they came in contact, only compelled them to construct an ideal world 
for themselves, modeled after their own strange and untrained imagina- 
tions, in which they found satisfaction and reality. By the time Char- 
lotte Bronte was thirteen years of age it had become her constant habit 
and one of her few pleasures to weave imaginary tales, idealizing her 
favorite historical heroes, and bodying forth in narrative form her own 
thoughts and feelings. Nor was she alone in her curious occupation ; all 
the family took part in the composition of juvenile stories and magazine 
articles. Their educational opportunities were limited, but the fire of 
genius which could not be kept back more than compensated for this 
want, and in 1846 the three sisters, under the nomsde plume ol "Currer," 
"Ellis," and "Acton Bell," offered for publication a small volume of 
poems. This venture not being successful, they next essayed prose, but 
with little better success, until in 1847 Charlotte published "Jane Eyre," 
which at once obtained for her both favor and fame. 

characterization. 

The story of the Brontes is one of the saddest in the annaJs of litera- 
ture. They were the children of a father Avho was both cold and violent, 
and of a gentle, sickly mother, early lost. They were reared amid sur- 
roundings the most gloomy and unhealthful, and cursed as they grew 
older with a brother who brought them shame and sorrow in return for 
the love they lavished upon him. Their very genius seemed a product of 
disease, and often their finest pages are marred with a bitter savor of its 

(187) 



188 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

origin. In treating such subjects these three quiet, patient daughters of 
a country parson found themselves quite at home. . . . One spring 
they were all taken sick with a complication of measles and whooping- 
cough, and on their recovery, Mr. Bronte thought a change of air desira- 
ble for the elder ones. In July, 1824, he sent Maria and Elizabeth to a 
school for clergymen's daughters, at Cowan's Bridge; in September they 
were joined by Emily and Charlotte. To the readers of Charlotte Bronte 
it would be superfluous to describe this school — the "Lowood" of ''Jane 
Eyre." Its miserable diet, unhealthy situation, long lessons, rigid dis- 
cipline, low type of religion, and continual sermons upon humility — noth- 
ing is there forgotten, nor is anything exaggerated. Moreover, the 
descriptions of both teachers and pupils are most of them portraits. 
Miss Temple and Miss Scatcherd are drawn from life; and the pathetic 
figure of Helen Burns is a delineation of Maria Bronte, whose death from 
consumption was directly due to the hardships she underwent at Cowan's 
Bridge. James Parton. 



Lowood School. 

(From "Jane Eyre.") 

My reflections were too undefined and fragmentary to merit 
record; I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my past 
life seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the pres- 
ent was vague and strange, and of the future I could form no 
conjecture. I looked round the convent-like garden, and then up 
at the house; a large building, half of which seemed gray and 
old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing the 
schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed 
windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over 
the door bore this inscription: 



Lowood Institution. 

this portion was rebuilt a. d, , by naomi brocklehurst 

of brocklehurst hall, in this county. 

" Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your 
good works, and glorify your Father, which is in heaven." 

—St. Matt. v. 16. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 189 

I read these words over and over again ; I felt that an explana- 
tion belonged to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their 
import. I was still pondering the signification of "Institution," 
and endeavoring to make out a connection between the first 
words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough 
close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a 
stone bench near ; she w^as bent over a book, on the perusal of 
which she seemed intent; and from where I stood I could see the 
title — it was "Kasselas; " a name that struck me as strange, and 
consequently attractive. In turning a leaf, she happened to look 
up, and I said to her directly, "Is your book interesting?" I 
had already formed the intention of asking her to lend it to me 
some day. 

"I like it," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, 
during which she examined me. 

"What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I 
found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stran- 
ger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits; but I 
think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; 
for I, too, liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish 
kind ; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substan- 
tial. 

" You may look at it," replied the girl, offering me the book. 

I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents 
were less taking than the title: "Rasselas" looked dull to my 
trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; 
no bright variety seemed spread over the closely-printed pages. 
I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and without saying 
anything she was about to relapse into her former studious 
mood; again I ventured to disturb her: " Can you tell me what 
the writing on that stone over that door means ? What is Lo- 
wood Institution? " 

" This house where you are come to live." 

"And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way differ- 
ent from other schools?" 

"It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of 



190 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan : are not 
either your father or your mother dead ?" 

" Both died before I can remember." 

'' Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, 
and this is called an institution for educating orphans." 

"Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?" 

"We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each." 

" Then why do they call us charity-children?" 

" Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, 
and the deficiency is supplied by subscription." 

"Who subscribes?" 

"Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this 
neighborhood and in London." 

"Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?" 

',' The lady who built the new part of this house, as that tablet 
records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here." 

"Why? 

"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment." 

" Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears 
a watch, and who said we were to have some bread and cheese." 

" To Miss Temple? Oh no ! I wish it did ; she has to answer to 
Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our 
food and all our clothes." 

' Does he live here?" 

' No— two miles off, at a large hall." 

' Is he a good man?" 

" He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good." 
Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?" 

='Yes." 

'And what are the other teachers called ?" 

•'The one with the red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends 
to the work, and cuts out — for we make our own clothes, our 
frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little one with black 
hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and 
hears the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a 
shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yel- 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 191 

low ribbon, is Madame Pierrot; she conies from Lisle, in France, 
and teaches French." 

" Do you like the teachers ? " 

" Well enough." 

" Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ? I can- 
not pronounce her name as you do." 

"Miss Scatcherd is hasty— you must take care not to offend 
her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person." 

" But Miss Temple is the best— isn't she? " 

"Miss Temple is very good, and very clever; she is above the 
rest, because she knows far more than they do." 

" Have you been long here? " 

"Two years." 

"Are you an orphan ? " 

" My mother is dead.'' 

"Are you happy here? " 

"You ask rather too many questions. I have given you 
answers enough for the present; now I want to read." 

But at the moment the summons sounded for dinner; all 
reentered the house. The odor which now filled the refectory was 
scarcely more appetizing than that which had regaled our nostrils 
at breakfast; the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated ves- 
sels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found 
the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of 
rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a 
tolerably abundant plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I 
ate what I could, and wondered within myself whether every day's 
fare would be like this. 

After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom ; 
lessons recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock. 

The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the 
girl with whom I had conversed in the veranda dismissed in 
disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class, and sent to 
stand in the middle of the large schoolroom. The punishment 
seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so 
great a girl — she looked thirteen or upward. I expected she 



192 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

would show signs of great distress and shame; but to mj sur- 
prise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though grave, 
she stood the central mark of all ejes. "How can she bear it 
so quietly — so firmly?" I asked of mj^self. "Were I in her 
place, it seems to me that I should wish the earth to open and 
swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking of some- 
thing beyond her punishment — beyond her situation: of some- 
thing not round her or before her. I have heard of day-dreams — 
is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but 
I am sure they do not see it — her sight seems turned in, gone 
down into her heart : she is looking at what she can remember, I 
believe, not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a 
girl she is — whether good or naughty ? " 

Soon after five p. m. we had another meal, consisting of a 
small mug of coffee, and half a slice of brown bread. I devoured 
my bread and drank my coffee with relish; but I should have been 
glad of as much more — I was still hungry. Half an hour's 
recreation succeeded, then study; then the glass of water and the 
piece of oat-cake, prayers and bed. Such was my first day at 
Lowood. 

The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing 
by rushlight ; but this morning we were obliged to dispense 
with the ceremony of washing: the water in the pitchers was 
frozen. A change had taken place in the weather the preceding 
evening, and a keen northeast wind, whistling through the 
crevices of our bedroom windows all night long, had made 
us shiver in our bed, and turned the contents of the ewers to 
ice. 

Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible reading 
was over, I felt ready to perish Avith cold. Breakfast-time came 
at last, and this morning the porridge was not burned ; the 
quality was eatable, the quantity small; how small my portion 
seemed ! I wished it had been doubled. 

In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the 
fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations were assigned 
me; hitherto I had only been a spectator of the proceedings at 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 193 

Lowood, I was now to become an actor therein. At first, being 
little accustomed to learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me 
both long and difficult ; the frequent change from task to task, 
too, bewildered me; and I was glad when, about three o'clock in 
the afternoon. Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin 
two yards long, together with needle, thimble, etc., and sent me 
to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem 
the same. At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise; 
but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd's chair reading, 
and as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, 
together with the manner in which each girl acquitted herself, 
and the animadversions or commendations of Miss Scatcherd on 
the performance. It was English history; among the readers I 
observed ray acquaintance of the veranda; at the commence- 
ment of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, 
but for some error of pronunciation or some inattention to 
stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in 
that obscure position. Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an 
object of constant notice; she was continually addressing to her 
such phrases as the following : 

•'Burns" (such it seems, was her name; the girls here were 
called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), "Burns, you 
are standing on the side of your shoe, turn your toes out imme- 
diately." " Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasantly; draw 
it in." "Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; I will 
not have you before me in that attitude," etc., etc. 

A chapter having been read through twice, the books were 
closed and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part 
of the reign of Charles I., and there were sundry questions about 
tonnage and poundage and ship-money, which most of them 
appeared unable to answer; still, every little difficulty was solved 
instantly when it reached Burns ; her memory seemed to have 
retained the substance of the whole lesson, and she was ready 
with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatch- 
erd would praise her attention ; but, instead of that, she suddenh'- 
called out : 

T. L.— 13 



194 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

" You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your 
nails this morning ! " 

Burns made no answer; I wondered at her silence. 

"Why," thought I, "does she not explain that she could 
neither clean her nails nor wash her face, as the water was 
frozen ? " 

My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to 
hold a skein of thread ; while she was winding it, she talked with 
me from time to time, asking whether I had ever been at school 
before, whether I could mark, stitch, knit, etc.; till she dismissed 
me, I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd's 
movements. When I returned to my seat, that lady was just 
delivering an order, of which I did not catch the import; but 
Burns immediately left the class, and, going into the small inner 
room where the books were kept, returned in half a minute, car- 
rying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. 
This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respect- 
ful courtesy; then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed 
her pinafore, and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on 
her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. Not a tear 
rose to Burns's eye; and while I paused from my sewing, because 
my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of unavail- 
ing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face altered 
its ordinary expression. 

"Hardened girl!" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; "nothing can 
correct you of your slatternly habits: carry the rod away." 

Burns obeyed : I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from 
the book-closet; she was just putting back her handkerchief into 
her pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek. 

My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the 
golden age either: it comprised an irksome struggle with diflScul- 
ties in habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The 
fear of failure in these points harassed me worse than the physi- 
cal hardships of my lot ; though these were no trifles. 

During January, February and part of March, the deep snows. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 195 

and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented 
our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to goto church; but 
within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open 
air. Our clothing w^as insufficient to protect us from the severe 
cold; we had no boots; the snow got into our shoes, and melted 
there; our ungloved hands became numbed and covered with 
chilblains, as were our feet; I remember well the distracting irri- 
tation I endured from this cause every evening, when my feet 
inflamed ; and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff 
toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of 
food was distressing. With the keen appetites of growing chil- 
dren, we had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. 
From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which 
pressed hardly on the younger pupils: whenever the famished 
great girls had an opportunity they w^ould coax or menace the 
little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared 
between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread dis- 
tributed at tea-time ; and after relinquishing to a third half the 
contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the remainder 
with an accompaniment of secret tears forced from me by the 
exigency of hunger. 

Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to 
walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron oflBci- 
ated. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder; during the 
morning service we became almost paralyzed. It was too far to 
return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in the 
same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was 
served round between the services. 

At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed 
and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a 
range of snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin 
from our faces. 

I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along 
our drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, 
gathered close about her, and encouraging us, by precept and 
example, to keep up our spirits, and march forward, as she said, 



196 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

''like stalwart soldiers." The other teachers, poor things, were 
generally themselves too much dejected to attempt the task of 
cheering others. 

How we longed for the light a.nd heat of a blazing fire when we 
got back! But to the little ones at least, this was denied: each 
hearth in the schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a 
double row of great girls, and behind them the younger children 
crouched in groups, wrapping their starved arms in their pina- 
fores. 

A little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration 
of bread — a whole, instead of a half, slice — with the delicious 
addition of a thin scrape of butter; it was the hebdomadal treat 
to which we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I 
generally contrived to reserve a moiety of this bounteous repast 
for myself; but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part 
with. 

The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the 
Church Catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of 
St. Matthew; and in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss 
Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her weariness. A fre- 
quent interlude of these performances was the enactment of the 
part of Eutychus by some half dozen little girls, who, overpow- 
ered with sleep, would fall down, if not out of the third loft, yet 
off the fourth form, and be taken up half dead. The remedy 
was, to thrust them forward into the center of the schoolroom, 
and oblige them to stand there till the sermon was finished. 
Sometimes their feet failed them, and they sank together in a 
heap; they were then propped up with the monitors' high stools. 

I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst; and 
indeed that gentleman was from home during the greater part of 
the first month after my arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay 
with his friend the archdeacon; his absence was a relief to me. I 
need not say that I had my own reasons for dreading his coming; 
but come he did at last. 

One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I 
was sitting with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 197 

long division, my eyes, raised in abstraction to the window, 
caught sight of a figure just passing; I recognized almost 
instinctively that gaunt outline; and when two minutes after, 
all the school, teachers included, rose en masse, it was not 
necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain whose entrance 
they thus greeted. A long stride measured the schoolroom, 
and present!}^ beside Miss Temple who, herself had risen, stood 
the same black column which had frowned on me so ominously 
from the hearth-rug at Gateshead. I now glanced sideways at 
this piece of architecture. Yes, 1 was right; it was Mr. Brockle- 
hurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer, narrower, 
and more rigid than ever. 

I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; 
too well I remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed 
about my disposition, etc.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brockle- 
hurst to apprise Miss Temple and the teachers of my vicious 
nature. All along I had been dreading the fulfillment of this 
promise — I had been looking out daily for the "coming man," 
whose information respecting my past life and conversation 
was to brand me as a bad child forever; now there he was. He 
stood at Miss Temple's side; he was speaking low in her ear; 
I did not doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy; 
and I watched her eye with painful anxiety, expecting every 
moment to see its dark orb turn on me a glance of repugnance 
and contempt. I listened, too ; and as I happened to be seated 
quite at the top of the room, I caught most of what he said ; its 
import relieved me from immediate apprehension. 

"I suppose. Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will 
do ; it struck me that it w^ould be just of the quality for the 
calico chemise, and I sorted the needles to match. You may 
tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memorandum of the 
darning-needles, but she shall have some papers sent in next 
week, and she is not, on any account, to give out more than one 
at a time to each pupil : if they have more, they are apt to be 
careless and lose them. And oh, ma'am ! I wish the woolen 
stockings were better looked to! — when I was here last, I went 



198 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE, 

into the kitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying on the 
line ; there was a quantity of black hose in a very bad state of 
repair: from the size of the holes in them I was sure they had 
not been well mended from time to time." 

He paused. 

"Your directions shall be attended to, sir," said Miss Temple. 

"And, ma'am," he continued, " the laundress tells me some of 
the girls have two clean tuckers in the week; it is too much; 
the rules limit them to one." 

"I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and 
Catherine Johnstone were invited to take tea with some friends 
at Lowton last Thursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean 
tuckers for the occasion." 

Mr. Brocklehurst nodded. 

'.' Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the circum- 
stance occur too often. And there is another thing which sur- 
prised me; I find in settling accounts with the housekeeper, that 
a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been served 
out to the girls during the past fortnight. How is this? I 
look over the regulations, and I find no such meal as lunch 
mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? and by what 
authority?" 

" I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss 
Temple; "the breakfast was so ill-prepared that the pupils could 
not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow them to remain fast- 
ing till dinner-time." 

" Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan 
in bringing up these girls is, not to accustom them to habits of 
luxury and indulgence, but to render them hardy, patient, self- 
denying. Should any little accidental disappointment of the 
appetite occur, such as the spoiling of a meal, the under or the 
over dressing of a dish, the incident ought not to be neutralized 
by replacing with something more delicate the comfort lost, thus 
pampering the body and obviating the aim of this institution ; 
it ought to be improved to the spirtual edification of the pupils, 
by encouraging them to evince fortitude under the temporary 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 199 

privation. A brief address on those occasions would not be mis- 
timed, wherein a judicious instructor would take the opportunity 
of referring to the sufferings of the primitive Christians; to the 
torments of martyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord 
himself, calling upon his disciples to take up their cross and fol- 
low him; to his warnings that man shall not live by bread alone, 
but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God ; to 
his divine consolations, ' If ye suffer hunger or thirst for my sake, 
happy are ye.' Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese, 
instead of burned porridge, into these children's mouths, you 
may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little think how you 
starve their immortal souls ! " 

Mr. Brocklehurst again paused — perhaps overcome by his feel- 
ings. Miss Temple had looked down when he first began to speak 
to her; but she now gazed straight before her, and her face, 
naturally pale as marble, appeared to be assuming also the cold- 
ness and fixity of that material; especially her mouth closed as 
if it would have required a sculptor's chisel to open it, and her 
brow settled gradually into petrified severity. 

Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his 
hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. 
Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met something that 
either dazzled or shocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid 
accents than he had hitherto used : "Miss Temple, Miss Temple, 
what — what is that girl with curled hair? Ked hair, ma'am, 
curled — curled all over ? " And extending his cane he pointed to 
the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so. 

" It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, very quietly. 

"Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, or any other, 
curled hair? Why, in defiance of every precept and principle of 
this house, does she conform to the world so openly — here in an 
evangelical, charitable establishment — as to wear her hair one 
mass of curls?" 

"Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss Temple, still 
more quietly. 

"Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature: I 



200 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

wish these girls to be the children of Grace : and why that abund- 
ance? I have again and again intimated that I desire the hair 
to be arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that 
girl's hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber to-mor- 
row ; and I see others who have far too much of the excrescence 
— that tall girl, tell her to turn round. Tell all the first form to 
rise up and direct their faces to the wall." 

Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to 
smooth away the involuntary smiles that curled them; she gave 
the order, however, and when the first class could take in what 
was required of them, they obeyed. Leaning a little back on my 
bench I could see the looks and grimaces with which they com- 
mented on this maneuver; it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could 
not see them too ; he would perhaps have felt that whatever he 
might do with the outside of the cup and platter, the inside was 
further beyond his interference than he imagined. 

He scrutinized the reverse of these living medals some five 
minutes, then pronounced sentence. These words fell like the 
knell of doom : "All those top-knots must be cut off." 

Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate. 

"Madam," he pursued, "I have a Master to serve whose 
kingdom is not of this world : my mission is to mortify in these 
girls the lusts of the flesh; to teach them to clothe themselves 
with shamefacedness and sobriety, not with braided hair and 
costly apparel ; and each of the young persons before us has a 
string of hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have 
woven : these, I repeat, must be cut off; think of the time wasted, 
of " 

Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted : three other visitors, 
ladies, now entered the room. They ought to have come a little 
sooner to have heard his lecture on dress, for they were splen- 
didly attired in velvet, silk, and furs. The two younger of the 
trio (fine girls of sixteen and seventeen) had gray beaver hats, 
then in fashion, shaded with ostrich plumes, and from under the 
brim of this graceful head-dress fell a profusion of light tresses, 
elaborately curled ; the elder lady was enveloped in a costly 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 201 

velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she wore a false front of 
French cnrls. 

These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as 
Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted to seats of 
honor at the top of the room. It seems they had come in the 
carriage with their reverend relative, and had been conducting a 
rummaging scrutiny of the rooms up-stairs, while he transacted 
business with the housekeeper, questioned the laundress, and 
lectured the superintendent. They now proceeded to address 
divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was charged with 
the care of the linen and the inspection of the dormitories; but I 
had no time to listen to what they said ; other matters called off 
and enchained my attention. 

Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst 
and Miss Temple, I had not at the same time neglected precau- 
tions to secure my personal safety; which I thought would be 
effected, if I could only elude observation. To this end, I had sat 
well back on the form, and while seeming to be busy with my sum, 
had held my slate in such a manner as to conceal my face: I 
might have escaped notice, had not my treacherous slate some- 
how happened to slip from my hand, and falling with an obtru- 
sive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all 
over now, and as I stooped to pick up the two fragments of 
slate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It came. 

"A careless girl!" said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately 
after — "It is the new pupil, I perceive." And before I could draw 
breath, "I must not forget I have a word to say respecting her." 
Then aloud — how loud it seemed to me! ''Let the child who 
broke her slate come forward ! " 

Of my own accord I could not have stirred ; I was paralyzed; 
but the two great girls who sat on each side of me set me on ray 
legs and pushed me towards the dread judge, and then Miss Tem- 
ple gently assisted me to his very feet, and I caught her whispered 
counsel, "Don't be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you 
shall not be punished." 

The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger. 



202 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

''Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite,"' 
thought I, and an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst 
and Co. bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen 
Burns. 

" Fetch that stool," said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very 
high one from which a monitor had Just risen ; it was brought. 

" Place the child upon it." 

And I was placed there, by whom I don't know — I was in no 
condition to note the particulars — I was onl}^ aware that they 
had hoisted me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose, that he 
was within a yard of me, and that a spread of shot orange and 
purple silk pelisse and a cloud of silvery plumage extended and 
waved below me. 

Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed. 

',' Ladies," said he, turning to his family; "Miss Temple, 
teachers, and children, you all see this girl?" 

Of course they did ; for I felt their eyes directed like burning- 
glasses against my scorched skin. 

"You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the 
ordinary form of childhood; God has graciously given her the 
shape that he has given to all of us; no signal deformity points 
her out as a marked character. Who would think that the Evil 
One had already found a servant and agent in her? Yet such, 
I grieve to say, is the case." 

A pause — in which I began to study the palsy of my nerves, 
and feel that the Rubicon was passed; and that the trial, no 
longer to be shirked, must be firmly sustained. 

" My dear children," pursued the black-marble clergyman, with 
pathos, " this is a sad, a melancholy occasion, for it becomes my 
duty to warn you, that this girl, who might be one of God's own 
lambs, is a little castaway : not a member of the true flock, but 
evidently an interloper and an alien. You must be on your guard 
against her; you must shun her example; if necessarj^, avoid her 
company, exclude her from yonr sports, and shut her out from 
your converse. Teachers, you must watcli her. Keep your eyes 
on her movements, weigh well her words, scrutinize her actions. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 203 

punish her body to save her soul, if, indeed, such salvation be 
possible, for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this child, 
the native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen 
who says its prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut — 
this girl is —a liar." 

Now came a pause of ten minutes : during which I , by this time 
in perfect possession of my wits, observed all the female Brockle- 
hursts produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and applj^ them to 
their optics, while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and 
the two younger ones whispered, " How shocking ! " 

Mr. Brocklehurst resumed. 

"This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and 
charitable lady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her 
as her own daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity, the 
unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that 
at last her excellent patroness was obliged to separate her from 
her own young ones, fearful lest her vicious example should con-^ 
tamiuate their purity. She has sent her here to be healed, even 
as the Jews of old sent their diseased to the troubled pool of 
Bethesda; and teachers, superintendent,! beg of you not to allow 
the waters to stagnate round her." 

With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the 
top button of his surtout, muttered something to his family, 
who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, and then all the great people 
sailed in state from the room. Turning at the door, mj^ judge 
said : "Let her stand half an hour longer on that stool, and let 
no one speak to her during the remainder of the day." 

There was I, then, mounted aloft — I, who had said I could 
not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in the mid- 
dle of the room, was now exposed to general view on a pedestal 
of infamy. What my sensations were, no language can de- 
scribe; but just as they all rose, stifling my breath and con- 
stricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me. In passing, 
she lifted her eyes. What a strange light inspired them ! What 
an extraordinary sensation that raj^sent through me! How the 
new feeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had 



204 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

passed a slave or victim, and imparted strength in the transit. 
I mastered the rising hysteria, hfted up my head, and took a 
iirm stand on the stool. Helen Burns asked some slight ques- 
tion about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden for the triviality 
of the inquiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me as she 
again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I know 
that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit 
up her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken gray eye, 
like a reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that 
moment Helen Burns wore on her arm "the untidy badge; " 
scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss 
Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow, be- 
cause she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is 
the imperfect nature of man ! Such spots are there on the disk 
of the clearest planet ; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only 
see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of 
the orb. 

Ere the half-hour ended five o'clock struck; school was dis- 
missed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ven- 
tured to descend; it was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and 
sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far sup- 
ported began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so 
overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with 
my face to the ground. Now I wept. Helen Burns was not here; 
nothing sustained me; left to myself, I abandoned myself, and 
my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and 
to do so much at Lowood, to make so manj^ friends, to earn 
respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress ; 
that very morning I had reached the head of m}^ class; Miss Mil- 
ler had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had smiled approbation ; 
she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French, 
if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer; 
and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils ; treated as an 
equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, 
here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever 
rise more? 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 205 

" Never," I thought ; and ardently I wished to die. AYhile sob- 
bing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached ; I 
started up — again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires 
just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought 
my coffee and bread. 

"Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from 
me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my 
present condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surprise. 
I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard ; I con- 
tinued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, 
embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon 
them ; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I wa& 
the first who spoke: "Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom 
everybody believes to be a liar ? " 

"Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who 
have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of 
millions." 

"But what have I to do with millions? The eighty I know 
despise me." 

"Jane, you are mistaken; probably not one in the school 
either despises or dislikes you. Many, I am sure, pity you 
nauch." 

" How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst said? " 

"Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god; nor is he even a great and ad- 
mired man; he is little liked here; he never took steps to make 
himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial favorite, you 
would have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you. 
As it is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they 
dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or 
two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts ; and if you 
persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so 
much the more evidently for their temporary suppression. Be- 
sides, Jane " she paused. 

"Well, Helen ? " said I, putting my hand into hers. She chafed 
my fingers gently to warm them, and went on: 

"If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while 



206 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

jour own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, 
you would not be without friends." 

"No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not 
enough; if others don't love me, I would rather die than live — I 
cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to 
gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other 
whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of 
my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a 
kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest " 

"Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human be- 
ings; you are too impulsive, too vehement. The sovereign Hand 
that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you 
with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures 
ieebler than you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, 
there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits. That world 
is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for 
they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain 
and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, 
angels see our tortures, recognize our innocence (if innocent we 
be, as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has 
weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; 
for 1 read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear 
front), and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to 
crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink 
overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is 
so certain an entrance to happiness — to glory?" 

I was silent. Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquility she 
imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the 
impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it 
came; and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast 
and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sor- 
rows, to yield to a vague concern for her. 

Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round 
her waist ; she drew me to her and we reposed in silence. We had 
not sat long thus when another person came in. Some heavy 
clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 207 

bare ; and her light, streaming in through a window near, shone 
full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once * 
recognized as Miss Temple. 

" I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she ; " I want 
you in my room ; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come 
too." 

We went ; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to 
thread some intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we 
reached her apartment; it contained a good fire and looked 
cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm- 
chair on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she 
called me to her side. 

" Is it all over?" she asked, looking down at my face. "Have 
you cried your grief away?" 

" I am afraid I never shall do that." 

"Why?" 

" Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and 
everybody else will now think me wicked." 

"We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. 
Continue to act as a good girl, and you will sa^tisfy me." 

"Shall I, Miss Temple?" 

"You will," said she, passing her arm round me. "And now 
tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your bene- 
factress?" 

"Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me 
to her care." 

"Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?" 

"No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it; but my uncle, as 
I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he 
died that she would always keep me." 

"Well, now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that 
when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his 
own defense. You have been charged with falsehood ; defend 
yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory 
suggests as true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing." 

I resolved in the depth of my heart that I would be most mod- 



208 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

erate— most correct ; and, having reflected a few minutes in order 
to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story 
of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was 
more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad 
theme; and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence 
of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and 
wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it 
sounded more credible. I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully 
believed me. 

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having 
come to see me after the fit; for I never forgot the, to me, fright- 
ful episode of the red-room; in detailing which, my excitement 
was sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could 
soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my 
heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, 
and locked me .a second time in the dark and haunted chamber. 

I had finished. Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in 
silence; she then said : " I know something of Mr. Lloyd ; I shall 
write to him ; if his reply agrees with your statement, you shall 
be publicly cleared from every imputation. To me, Jane, you are 
clear now." 

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was 
well contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the 
contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, 
her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming 
dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns. 

"How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much 
to-day?" 

" Not quite so much, I think, ma'am." 

"And the pain in your chest?" 

"Is a little better." 

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse: 
then she returned to her own seat. As she resumed it, I heard 
her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing 
herself, she said cheerfully: "But you two are my visitors to- 
night; I must treat you as such." She rang her bell. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 209 

" Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have 
not yet had tea; bring the tray, and place cups for these two 
young ladies." 

And a tray was soon brought. How pretty to my eyes, did 
the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little 
round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the 
beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to 
my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry), discerned only 
a very small portion. Miss Temple discerned it too. "Bar- 
bara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and 
butter? There is not enough for three." 

Barbara went out; she returned soon, "Madam, Mrs. Har- 
den says she has sent up the usual quantity." 

Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper — a woman 
after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of 
whalebone and iron. 

" Oh, very w^ell ! " returned j\Iiss Temple ; " we must make it do, 
Barbara, I suppose." And as the girl withdrew, she added, 
smiling: "Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply defi- 
ciencies for this once." 

Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and 
placed before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but 
thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking 
from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our 
eyes a good-sized seed-cake. 

" I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," 
said she; " but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," 
and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand. 

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not 
the least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratifica- 
tion with which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our fam- 
ished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied. Tea 
over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire. 
We sat one on each side of her; and now a conversation followed 
between her and Helen which it was indeed a privilege to be 
admitted to hear. 

T. L.— 14 



210 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of 
state in her mien, of refined propriety in her language, which pre- 
cluded deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager — some- 
thing which chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her 
and listened to her, by a controlling sense of a,we; and such was 
my feeling now; but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder. 

The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kind- 
ness of her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, 
something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within 
her. They woke, they kindled. First, they glowed in tlie bright 
tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale 
and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid luster of her eyes, 
which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that 
of Miss Temple's — a beauty neither of fine color nor long eye- 
lashes, nor penciled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radi- 
ance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from 
what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large 
enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, 
full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's 
discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed 
hastening to live wdthin a very brief span as much as manyliA'^e 
during a protracted existence. 

They conversed of things I had never heard of— of nations and 
times past; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered 
or guessed at. They spoke of books. How many they had read ! 
AVhat stores of knowledge they possessed ! Then they seemed so 
familiar with French names and French authors; but my amaze- 
ment reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she 
sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her father had 
taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and 
construe a page of " Virgil ;" and Helen obeyed, my organ of ven- 
eration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely 
finished ere the bell announced bedtime. No delay could be 
admitted ; Miss Temple embraced us both saying, as she drew us 
to her heart, " God bless you, my children !" 

Helen she held a little longer than me ; she let her go more 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 211 

reluctantly ; it was Helen her eye followed to the door ; it was for 
her she a second time breathed a sad sigh ; for her she wiped a 
tear from her cheek. 

On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd. 
She was examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns', 
and when we entered, Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, 
and told that to-morrow she should have half a dozen untidily- 
folded articles pinned to her shoulder. 

"My things were indeed in shameful disorder," murmured 
Helen to me, in a low voice : " I intended to have arranged them, 
but I forgot." 

Next morning Miss Scatcherd wrote, in conspicuous characters 
on a piece of pasteboard, the word " Slattern," and bound it like 
a phylactery round Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign- 
looking forehead. She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, 
regarding it as a deserved punishment. 

But the privations, or rather the hardships of Lowood lessened. 
Spring drew on; she was indeed already come; the frosts of win- 
ter had ceased; its snows were melted, its cutting winds amelio- 
rated. My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the 
sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler 
breathings of April; the nights and mornings no longer by their 
Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could 
now endure the play-hour passed in the garden; sometimes on a 
sunny day it began to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness 
grew over those brown beds which, freshening daily, suggested 
the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each 
morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out among 
the leaves — snowdrops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden- 
eyed pansies. On Thursday afternoons (half holidays) we now 
took walks, and found still sweeter flowers opening by the way- 
side, under the hedges. 

That forest dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and 
fog-bred pestilence ; which, quickening with the quickening spring, 



212 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its 
crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived , trans- 
formed the seminary into a hospital. 

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of 
the pupils to receive infection ; forty-five out of the eighty girls 
lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The 
few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license, be- 
cause the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent 
exercise to keep them in health ; and had it been otherwise, no 
one had leisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple's whole 
attention was absorbed by the patients. She lived in the sick- 
room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at 
night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and 
making other necessary preparations for the departure of those 
'girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations 
able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion. 
Many already smitten went home only to die. Some died at the 
school and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the 
malady forbidding delay. 

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, 
and death its frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear 
within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed with 
hospital smells, the drug and the pastil striving vainly to over- 
come the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded 
over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its 
garden, too, glowed with flowers; hollyhocks had sprung up 
tall as trees, lillies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; 
the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and 
crimson double-daises; the sweetbriers gave out morning and 
evening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant 
treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, 
except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms 
to put in a coffin. 

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the 
beauties of the scene and season. They let us ramble in the 
wood like gypsies, from morning till night. We did what we 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 213 

liked, went where we liked. We lived better too. Mr. Brockle- 
hurst and his family never came near Lowood now ; household 
matters were not scrutinized into; the cross housekeeper was 
gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her successor, who 
had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways 
of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality. Be- 
sides, there were fewer to feed ; the sick could eat little ; our 
breakfast-basins were better filled. When there was no time to 
prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she would give 
us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, 
and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each 
chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously. 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 

1795-1868. 

Daniel P. Thompson was born at Charlestown, Mass., under the 
shadow of Bunker Hill, in 1 795. He graduated from Middlebury College 
in 1820, and three years later engaged in the practice of law at Mont- 
pelier, Vt. He was editor of the Green Mountain Freeman from 1849 
to 185(5, and Secretary of State for Yermont from 1853 to 1855. He 
improved his leisure hours in literary work, contributing largely to cur- 
rent periodicals, besides publishing volumes of romance and poetry 
descri])tive of New England life, several of which have been republished 
ill England. His best known works are "The Grpen Mountain Boys," 
"May Martin," and "Locke Amsden, or the Schoolmaster." 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

While not an educational classic, " Locke Amsden " is nevertheless a 
story of exceptional merit, and one which not only secured favorable 
commendation from both the educational and secular press of its time, 
but a work which has continued to hold a high place in the estimation of 
leading educators throughout the land. The recognized standing of its 
author, the merit of the text itself, and the attractive style in which it is 
presented, have all contributed to its popularity, and these features 
strongly commend it to all who are actively engaged in educational 
work. 

The School in the Horn of the Moon. 

(From "Locke Amsden ; or, the Schoolmaster.") 

It w^as near the middle of a dark and dreary season which 
characterizes our northern clime. Old winter had taken his Jan- 
nary nap. And having protracted longer than usual his cold, 
sweaty slumbers, he had now, as if to make amends for his remiss- 
ness, aroused himself with a rage and fury which seemed to show 
his determination to expel the last vestige of his antagonistic 
element, heat, that had thus invaded and for a, while disarmed 
him, forever from his dominions. The whole season, indeed, to 
(214) 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 215 

drop the metaphorical forplain language, had been one of uncom- 
mon mildness. A warm and broken December had been succeeded 
by a still warmer and more thawy January. And so little had 
people been made aware of the presence of winter thus far, that 
'their doors were often left open, and small fires only were either 
used or required. But the cold weather now set in with intense 
seYerit}^ and compelled all to keep tightly-closed doors and 
roaring fires. 

The schoolhouse, which we have been for sometime making 
the scene of action, had been built the preceding fall; and the 
interior, consequently, had been freshly plastered; while the 
woodwork of the doors and windows, already tight before from 
its newness, had been sw'ollen by the recent thawy weather; so 
that the whole room by this, and the finishing operation of the 
frost in closing up the remaining interstices, had been made 
almost wholly impervious to the admission of any fresh air from 
without. 

From this, however, no evil consequences, owing to the mild- 
ness of the season, and the attendant circumstances we have 
mentioned, had resulted to the school. But scarcely a week had 
elapsed, after the change of weather just described, before the 
scholars, though apparently much enjoying the contrasted com- 
forts of their tight, stove-heated room, while the cold, savage 
blasts could be heard raging and howling without, became very 
visibly affected. A livid paleness overspread their features; 
while their every appearance and movement indicated great and 
increasing languor and feebleness. The general health of the 
school, in short, including that of the master, seemed to be rap- 
idly failing. These indications were soon follow^ed by several in- 
stances of so great illness as to confine its victims to their homes, 
and even to their beds. Among the latter was the case of the 
only son and child of a poor but pious and intelligent widow, by 
the name of Marvin, which excited in the bosom of Locke feel- 
ings of the deepest sorrow for the misfortune of the boy, and 
sympathy in the affliction of his doting parent. And it was not 
without reason that both teacher and parent were touched with 



216 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

peculiar grief on the occasion; for the boj, who was about ten 
years old, was not only kind and amiable in disposition, but a 
very excellent scholar. And now, almost for the first time, hav- 
ing the advantages of good instruction, and his ambition and 
natural love of learning having been kindled into enthusiasm by 
the various incitements held out to him by his instructor, with 
whom he had become a secret favorite, he pursued his studies 
with an ardor and assiduity which knew no relaxation. And 
having made surprising progress in grammar, during the few. 
weeks the school had kept, he had recently solicited and obtained 
leave to commence arithmetic, to which he was giving his whole 
heart and soul, when he was thus snatched from his engrossing 
pursuit by the hand of sickness. 

These cases of sickness, and especially the more serious one of 
the good and studious little Henry, the boy we have particular- 
ized, produced much sensation in the neighborhood. And the 
cause, not only of these instances of absolute illness, but of the 
altered and sickly appearance of the whole school, which now 
excited observation and uneasiness, began to be generallj^ dis- 
cussed. As no epidemic was prevailing in the country, and as 
all other schools in the vicinity, as far as could be heard from, 
were even unusually healthy, it was soon concluded that the pres- 
ent unhealthiness must be occasioned by something wrong about 
the schoolhouse, or in the manner of conducting the school. And 
as nothing amiss could possibly be perceived in the schoolhouse, 
which all pronounced warm and comfortable, it was settled that 
the fault, of course, must be looked for in the master. Some 
averred that the latter, by undue severity, or by some other 
means, had broken down the spirit of his scholars, which had 
caused them to become melancholy, drooping, and sickly. Others 
said that he had made the scholars study so hard, that it had 
caused their health to give way under the tasks which they were 
induced, through fear, or some mysterious influence he had 
obtained over their minds, to perform. And there were yet others 
who carried still farther the idea thrown out by thoselast named, 
and contended that the master must have resorted to some 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 217 

unlawful art or power, which he had exercised upon his pupils, 
not only to subjugate them, but somehow to give them an unnat- 
ural thirst for their studies, and as unnatural a power of master- 
ing them. In proof of this, one man cited the instance of his son, 
who, having become half-crazed on his arithmetic, and having 
worked all one evening on a sum which he could not do, went to 
bed, leaving his slate upon the table, but rose sometime in the 
night in his sleep, actually worked out the answer, returned to 
bed, wholly unconscious of what he had done, and slept till morn- 
ing, when he found, to his surprise, the whole process, in his own 
figures, upon the slate.* 

This incident, however little it might have had to do, in the 
minds of others, in proving the position it was cited to sustain, 
seemed to go far with these people in confirming the strange 
notion they were beginning to conceive, that the master had 
brought some unnatural influence to bear upon his pupils. And 
w^hen they compared the wild, thoughtless, and unstudions con- 
duct which had ever characterized the scholars before, with their 
present greatly altered behavior, and the eager diligence with 
which many of them, both day and night, pursued their studies, 
particularly mathematical studies, they mysteriously shook their 
heads, and said, "they didn't know about these things; such a 
change might have com.e in a natural way, but they couldn't 
understand it." It was agreed on all hand, they further argued, 
that the master was deep in figures. Captain Bunker, who was 
considered the best natural reckoner in those parts, had con- 
fessed that he couldn't hold a candle to him in that respect. 
They had always heard that strange things could be done with 
figures, if a person sought to do so. Indeed, there was a certain 
point in figures, they supposed, beyond which, if a person per- 
sisted in going, he was sure to have help from one who should be 
nameless, but who always exacted his pay for his assistance. 
They hoped this was not the case with their master; but if it 



*This incident, improbable as it may appear to some, is a trne one, having 
occurred within the knowledge of the author, who otherwise would not have 
ventured in relating it.— D, P. Thompson. 



218 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

was, and he was trying' to lead his scholars into the same for- 
bidden paths, it was no wonder that they had such strange, 
blue looks; nor was it at all surprising that sickness should 
come upon them, as a judgment. And they again shook their 
beads and said "it was high time that something should be 
done." 

Let it not be inferred that we would convey the idea, that the 
people of the country in which our scene is laid were generally as 
superstitious as some of the circumstances here represented to 
have taken place might seem to imply. They certainly were not 
so. And comparatively few locations, we presume, could have 
been found, where such arguments as we have put into the 
mouths of some of the good people of this uncultured district 
would have been listened to a moment. But our observations, 
made during considerable travel and intercourse among the com- 
mon classes of people in the Middle and Northern States, have 
apprised us that instances of the prevalence of notions similar to 
those just mentioned are still to be found, and much oftener, too, 
than we had formerly supposed. AVe have often come across iso- 
lated neighborhoods, even in the heart of intelligent communities, 
where, to our surprise, we found all the exploded notions of witch- 
craft, sorcery, divination, and the like, still entertained; and to 
an extent, indeed, that led us almost to doubt whether we had 
not, by some miracle or other, been carried back a century- and a 
half, and set down among a clan of the immediate disciples of old 
Cotton Mather, who spent so much time and learning in making 
mystery and mischief about things which have no existence, 
except in imagination. Such a neighborhood, with a few honor- 
able exceptions, we are constrained to say, was that of the Horn 
of the Moon. 

On the day following that during which the singular surmises 
and discussions, to which we have alluded, were started, two 
more members of the school were taken down; and the situation 
of Henry Marvin had become so alarming, that his agonized 
mother, some time in the preceding night, had dispatched a man 
for a physician of high reputation, residing in a large village, 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 219 

known by the name of Carters ville, nearly thirty miles distant; 
though she was compelled to pledge her only cow to defray the 
expenses of the man, and induce him to become answerable to the 
doctor for his pay. All this, as may be supposed, much increased 
the alarm in the district, and quickened into action those who 
had busied themselves in getting up an excitement against the 
master. Meanwhile, the innocent victim of these absurd imputa- 
tions remained at his post, wholly ignorant of the stir that was 
going on about him, and thinking only of the misfortune which 
threatened his school . On the evening of the day last mentioned he 
dismissed his school early, and with a heavy heart repaired to the 
residence of the distressed widow, to visit his sick little favorite. 
On reaching the house, he entered the room ordinarily occupied by 
the family; when he was introduced, by a woman in attendance, 
to Dr. Lincoln, the physician before named, who, having arrived 
a short time before, was now taking some refreshment. 

"Our little patient here is a pupil of j^ours, sir? " inquiringly 
said the doctor, who was a small, unostentatious, but a highly 
intellectual man. 

" He is," replied Locke; " and I can hardly express how much 
anxiety I feel for his situation, w^hich I fear you will pronounce 
dangerous." 

"Your apprehensions, I regret to say, are but too well 
grounded, sir." 

"What do you consider the true character of his disease?" 

"Whatever it may have been at first, it is now a brain fever, 
threatening congestion." 

"Are you prepared to assign any particular cause ? " 

"Of his first attack, I am not. In regard to the form the dis- 
ease has now assumed,! may be better prepared, perhaps, to give 
an opinion after asking you a few questions. What are the boy's 
habits of study and scholarship? " 

"He is a bright scholar— uncommonly so — very industrious 
and anxious to learn." 

" I suspected so. And you have held up to him what to others, 
perhaps, would scarcely be an inducement sufficient to move 



220 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

them, but what to his sensitive mind, has incited him to unwonted 
exertions ? ' ' 

"As 3^ou say, sir, I may have said that which had the effect to 
incite him ; although I am sure I have used more exertions with 
many others." 

'' I presume so. It does not require a timber chain to draw a 
miser to a supposed bed of gold. K bare glimpse of the loved 
treasure is enough to kindle his whole soul for the eager grasp. 
So with the youthful intellect, if bright, and united with a strong 
love of learning. And let me caution you, my dear sir, how you 
spur on such a mind, in one of tender years. The body must be 
permitted to grow, as well as the mind. Very bright children are 
said always to die first, and though the cause generally assigned 
for this may be false, there is yet much truth in the saving; the 
true cause of the fact being, that the minds of such children, by 
the injudiciously applied incitements of parents and teachers, 
are often so over-wrought, that disease, at every slight attack 
on other parts of the system, is prone to fly to the enfeebled 
brain, and, oftener than otherwise, destroy its victim. In these 
remarks you will read the opinion to which I incline respecting 
the present case." 

"Ay ; but are you aware that several others of my school have 
been taken ill, and those, too, that would be the last to whom 
you would think of imputing injury from undue mental exer- 
tion?" 

"I have so understood, sir. There ma}^ have been some 
local cause for these, as well as the first attack of the poor 
little fellow here. Has any such cause suggested itself to your 
mind? " 

" No ! unless it be the late sudden and great change in the 
weather." 

"That will hardly account for the manner in which your 
school, almost the whole of it, in some degree, as I understand, 
has been affected, in a time of such general health. There must 
be other causes, which I feel some curiosity to ascertain before I 
return." 



DAMEL FIERCE THOMPSON. 221 

The conYersation was here interrupted by the entrance of a 
woman of the neighborhood, one of that valuable class of 
society who retail news, with comments. 

"Do you attend the school meeting to-night, Mr, Amsden?" 
she soon asked ; for she did not appear very bashful in claiming 
her right to a share in the conversation. 

"School meeting, madam!" said Locke, in surprise; "I was 
not aware that there was to be one." 

" Oh, yes, there is; why, everybody is going, they say. I sup- 
posed you, of course, knew it." 

" This is the first I have heard of it. But what is the object of 
the meeting?" 

"Oh, to see what's to be done about the scholars being in this 
sickly and malagnantly way to be sure. Some say the school 
won't keep any more at anj rate. But I tell 'em, like enough the 
master will clear it up, after all's said and done." 

"Clear up what, pray, madam? Of what can I possibly be 
accused, in connection with this misfortune to my school? " 

" Oh, don't ask me now — I let it pass into one ear and out the 
other, what I hear; because I never mean to be one of those who 
go about telling things to breed mischief and ill-will among peo- 
ple." And here the good and scrupulous lady struck off in a 
tangent, and asked the doctor, now while she thought of it, as 
she said, seeing she had heard a great many disputes about it, 
" whether saffron or camomile tea, was, upon the whole, the best 
for the measles? " 

As soon as the doctor, who was a man of much six but 
caustic humor, had graveh^ delivered himself of a very learned 
answer, which, he said, upon the whole, all things carefully con- 
sidered, he must conclude in the language of the great Dr. 
Pope,— 

" For forms of diet drinks let fools contest; 
That which is best administered is best" — 

as soon as he had done this, Locke, whose mind was still running 
upon the inexplicable news he had just heard from the woman, 



222 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

again turned to her, and asked if she knew whether Mr. Bunker 
had returned from the journey on which he had been for the last 
fortnight absent. 

"Why, we don't certainly know yet," replied the newsmon- 
gress; "but we kinder 'spect he got home this very afternoon. 
Jim Walker, who was to our house about an hour ago, to bor- 
row a sassage-filler for his wife, said he thought he saw, from his 
house, a creter over there, that looked like the captain's old 
black hoss, going to water, and rolling in the snow, as if he'd 
jest been onharnessed after a journey." 

"Well, I am thankful for that, if he has indeed arrived," 
replied Locke, who felt anxious for the presence of his friend at 
the approaching meeting. 

"Come, Mr. Amsden," said the doctor, rising, "you will of 
course attend the school-meeting; and I will go with you, if I can 
be spared; but we will now walk into the sick-room, if you please. 
We cannot admit much company," he continued, as he saw the 
gossip turn a longing eye upon the opening door, as if waiting 
for an invitation to accompany them; "but Mr. Amsden is the 
boy's teacher, whose presence may be a benefit, by recalling his 
wandering mind." 

When they entered the sick-chamber, a scene of silent but 
touching woe presented itself. The grief -stricken mother, who 
scarcely heeded their approach, sat bending OA^er the pillowed 
couch, intently gazing, with fixed, glazed, and watery eyes, upon 
the face of the little sufferer, as he lay nervously moving his rest- 
less limbs, and rolling his swathed head, in the deep and troubled 
slumbers which exhausted nature seemed to be strongly claiming 
on the one hand, and grappling disease fiercely disputing and 
constantly disturbing on the other. The doctor took the 
patient's hand, and attentively examined his pulse; when some 
movement, in restoring the limb to its place, awoke him. As his 
dim and slowly wandering eyes fell upon the face of his beloved 
teacher, a single glance of intelligence slightlj^ illumined them ; 
and the semblance of an affectionate smile played faintly, an 
instant, over his sunken and livid features, vanishing away like 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 223 

some struggling sunbeam that has partially burst through a 
stormy cloud. 

The mother saw the glance, with the recognition it evinced. 
And the association, as her thoughts flew back to the happy days 
of her darling boy's health and friendly intercourse with his 
teacher, of which that look had so plainly spoken, and reverted 
to what he now was, and probably soon would be, — the associa- 
tion thus called up was too much for her bursting heart. She 
groaned aloud from the inmost recesses of her troubled spirit. 
Her whole frame became deeply agitated, and her bosom shook 
with the convulsive throes of her agony, as within distinct, quick, 
whispered ejaculations, she seemed eagerly snatching for the hand 
of mercy from above to save her from sinking under the insup- 
portable weight of her own feelings. Her prayers were so far 
answered as to bring her the temporary relief of tears, which now 
gushed and fell like rain from their opening fountains of bitter- 
ness. 

''I am glad to see that,'' observed Lincoln, brushing away a 
tear that had started out upon his knitting brows. <'Tt will 
relieve you, madam. And now let me persuade you to go out, 
bathe your face, and otherwise refresh yourself. We will remain, 
and take care of your son." 

''Our profession," resumed the doctor, after the widow had 
retired, as she did, in silence, on the suggestion just made to her, 
<'our profession, Mr. Amsden, is one which brings along with it 
many pains, but which, at the same time, is not without it^ 
gratifications. A case now, like this, an almost hopelessly sick 
child, with a distracted parent hanging over it — and we are daily 
pained with witnessing such scenes— draws hard, hard, I confess, 
upon my sympathies. But again, on the other hand, if this boy 
should recover through my means, I shall lay up in the bosom of 
that mother, whether I deserve it or not, a store of gratitude 
which will, perhaps, often find utterance in blessings at the bare 
mention of my name ! Yes, if he recover," continued the speaker, 
musingly, as he rose at some new appearance he noticed in the 
patient, and went to the bedside, "if he recover — and all that I 



224 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

can do shall be done, and that too with no charge to the poor 
woman, even if I knew I had got to beg my next meal. But it is 
a fierce and unmanageable disease, and I tremble for the crisis of 
this night. Here, step here, Mr. Amsden, and listen to the con- 
fused mutterings of broken thoughts and images that are whirl- 
ing in the chaos of that perplexed and laboring brain." 

Locke immediately complied with the request; and as he 
turned his ear towards the rapidly-moving lips of the delirious 
boy, he could soon distinguish "six times six are thirty-six — 
seven times six are forty-two — eight times six are forty-eight,'^ 
and so on. Sometimes he would follow one figure in this manner 
through all its successive multipliers, in the usual table, and then 
take up another, follow it awhile, and suddenly drop it for a 
third, which in turn, perhaps, would be relinquished for some 
attempted process in subtraction or division; in all of which he 
seemed to be constantly meeting with troubles and perplexities, 
with which he would appear to contend awhile, and then return 
to his old starting point in the multiplication table, and with 
freshened impulse hurry on with ''six times six are thirty-six — 
seven times six are forty-two,^^ etc., etc., till something again 
occurred to turn his bewildered mind from the course it was 
mechanically pursuing. 

"Poor, poor boy!" exclaimed Locke, as, with a sigh and 
starting tear he turned away from the affecting spectacle. 

The time having arrived for our hero's departure for the 
school-meeting, and the widow now coming in, the doctor 
apprised her of his intention of accompanying the former, and, 
giving his directions for the next hour, requested her to send for 
him should any considerable change occur in the patient, when 
they both set off together for the schoolhouse. 

On reaching the place of destination, they found, with the 
exception of Bunker and one or two others, all the men, together 
with several of the older scholars of the district, already assem- 
bled, and on the point of proceeding to business. As soon as 
Xocke had helped his friend, the doctor, to a seat, and taken one 
near by for himself, he cast a leisurely look round the assembly. 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 225 

It required neither much time nor closeness of observation to 
apprise him that there was a great deal of suppressed, excited 
feeling prevailing generally among the company. Nor was he 
much longer in satisfying himself, from the words which occasion- 
ally reached his ears, from little knots of eager whispers around 
him, and from the many cold and suspicious glances he encoun- 
tered, that a great portion of this feeling was unfavorably directed 
against himself, the cause of which he was still unable to 
conjecture. 

"I motion Deacon Gilchrist be Moderator of this meeting," 
said one, bobbing half-way up, and hastily squatting back to 
his seat, before the sentence was fairly out of his mouth. 

''I am not so sure but they will need a moderator before they get 
through," whispered the doctor to Locke, emphasizing the word 
so as to give it a literal signification. 

The vote having been taken, and the chairman, a short, slug- 
gish man, whose wisdom and sanctity lay principally in his face, 
being duly installed in his seat, he pronounced the meeting open, 
and invited those present "to offer." 

"I motion," again said the person who had first spoken, "I 
motion, Mr. Moderator, that this school come to an eend. And 
I've got my reasons for't." 

The motion was eagerly seconded by two or three others, all 
speaking at once, and demanding the question, in a manner that 
plainly showed that a considerable portion of those present were 
acting in concert, and with the intention of having the vote 
taken before any debate could be had on the subject. And the 
chairman, who was evidently a secret favorer of the project, 
jumped up to put the question ; when Locke, who had witnessed 
the movement with the utmost surprise, rose and demanded the 
reasons which the mover asserted he had for his proposed 
measurCo 

" I call for the vote — put it to vote ! " was the only reply which 
Locke received to his reasonable demand. 

" Look here now, Mr. Moderator," cried a tall, rough-looking 
young fellow, who rose in a different part of the room from that 

T. L.— 15 



226 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

occupied by the combined party, "I have neither chick or child 
to send to school, to be sure; but I'm a voter here, and I must 
say I think you are for pushing the master rather hard, to vote 
him out without giving him your reasons, so as to allow him 
a chance to clear it up, if he can. And as to any blame for 
the sickness resting on him, I ain't so sure but what he can; 
for I can't say I think much of this black art business, or of its 
having anything to do in bringing on the trouble. I wouldn't 
give much for all the help the master or anybody else ever got 
that way. Now you may think as you're a mind to ; but I never 
thought the old boy was half so much of a critter as he's 
cracked up to be. And I don't believe he's any great scratch at 
cipherin himself neither, much less to teach it to others." 

The sensibilities of the good deacon received a very visible 
shock from this strange and irreverent speech, as it was deemed ; 
and his zealous supporter, whom we have mentioned as taking 
the lead in motions thus far made, was so much outraged in his 
feelings, either by the sentiments of the speaker, or the opposition 
they implied to his plans, that he rose, and said he thought the 
young man ought to be rebuked for such loose discourse, in a 
meeting like this, where folks had so much reason to be solemn. 
<<I wonder if he believes,'' continued the zealot, warming up, 
<'what the scripture says about the power of sorcerers' getting 
unlawful help to do what other folks couldn't do ? And I should 
like to ask him where he thinks the help come from, when young 
John Mugridge, that the master had got along so unnatural fast 
in figures, did a hard sum in his sleep. I want to know, too, what 
he thinks about widow Marvin's boy being taken sick — in mercy, 
perhaps — the very next week after the master put him to cipher- 
ing. And then I wish he'd tell us what makes the whole school 
look so blue and ghastly, if there ain't anything wrong in the 
master's doings. And I call on the master himself to say whether 
he can deny that he understands the black art." 

Locke could hardly bring himself to reply to this ridiculous 
charge, or even to answer the particular question that he had 
been thus publicly called on to answer. He did so, however, by 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 227 

briefly stating that he knew of no such art. He had heard, 
indeed, that the faculty of foretelling events, fortunes, and the 
like, was supposed to be attainable by figures. And he recollected , 
as he commenced arithmetic when a mere boy, indulging a sort 
of vague expectation that he should come across this art, if he 
went far enough. But the further he advanced the more did he 
see the impossibility of acquiring any such faculty by the use of 
figures, which, more peculiarly than any other science, discarded 
all suppositions, and had to do only with certain demonstrable 
facts. And now, having studied or examined, as he believed, 
nearly all of that science that had been published, he was fully 
prepared to say that the belief in the faculty in question was 
wholly a delusion. 

"I don't blame him for denying it," said the superstitious 
spokesman before named. "I think I should, if I was wicked 
enough to tamper with sich forbidden things. But I should like 
to hear Deacon Gilchrist the Moderator's views on this subject." 

The Moderator, after sundry hems and haws, by way of get- 
ting his apparatus of speech in motion, assumed a look of wise 
solemnity, and observed : 

<' It appears to me, my beloved friends, that there's an awful 
responsibility on us. Duty is duty. I do think so. I don't know, 
nor want to, much about the hidden things of figures, except 
they are thought to be the instruments that Satan works by 
sometimes. We know there were sorcerers and workers in hidden 
mysteries, in the days of the apostles; and the scripter says they 
shall be multiplied in the latter days, which now is. I once read 
a book by a great and deep divine — I've eeny most forgot his 
name, but I think it was Woollen Marther, or some sich oncom- 
mon crissen name — who had seen, with his own eyes, a great deal 
of the awful doings of Satan. And he speaks of the strange 
looks of those that were buffeted by the adversary, and the 
divers maladies and sore evils that befell those who were led by 
his emissaries into unlawful ways. And I do think, my friends, 
there's something very mysterious in this 'ere school. I do think 
we have seen a token of displeasure, that seems to say to us, in 



228 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

a loud voice— 3' ea, the voice of many thunders— Come out, and 
be separate from him that bringeth the evil upon you.'' 

This speech was triumphantly echoed by several of the dea- 
con's supporters, as an unanswerable argument for the measure 
they were so intent on carrying. There were others, however, 
who were so obtuse as not to perceive the force of the argument, 
or the justice of its application. Among these were the intended 
victim of this combination, and his newly -found friend, the tall 
fellow, whose speech had so scandalized his opponents ; both of 
w^hom made a reply to the oracular speech of our modern Solo- 
mon — the one by denying both premises and conclusions, and the 
other by drolly asking pardon of the old boy, the deacon, or any 
of their friends, if he had underrated or offended them in his 
former speech, and by contending that the master had cleared 
himself, to his mind, of the charge of ciphering his scholars into 
fevers, and their parents into fidgets. These replies led to a good 
deal of scattering debate, in which nearly all, by speech, word 
thrown in, or other manifestation, participated; and by which 
it became apparent that there were strictly three parties in the 
assembly: first, the deacon's trained followers, who, numbering 
about one third of the district, were for breaking up the school, 
for reasons before given ; second, another portion, of about the 
same number, who had been induced to come into the plan of the 
former, through their secret fears that some contagious disease 
w^as about to break out in the school, which their children would 
be more likely to take if the school continued; and last, the 
other third, who believed the master in no wa}" chargeable for the 
condition of the school, which they wished might be still con- 
tinued. 

The deacon's party, perceiving, by this time, that they could 
safely count on strength enough to carry their measure, clam- 
ored more loudly than ever for a decision of the question. Locke 
gave himself up as lost, and a few minutes more would, indeed, 
have been decisive of his doom, but for the unexpected arrival of 
a new personage. This was Bunker, who having reached home 
onlv a few hours before, had not heard what was in train till the 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 229 

evening was considerably advanced; when, accidentally learning 
something of the facts, he came post haste to the scene of action. 
This arrival very visibly disconcerted the deacon's party, and 
produced a dead pause in their proceedings, during which the 
former marched boldly up to Locke, and gave him one of those 
hearty and cordial shakes of the hand, which send assurance to 
the desponding heart, and are more gratefully felt, on some emer- 
gencies, than a thousand expressed pledges of friendship, on 
others. After being introduced to Dr. Lincoln, Bunker, taking a 
conspicuous stand before the company, immediately demanded 
the object of the meeting, and, by a series of sharp and rapid 
questions, addressed first to one, then another, soon succeeded in 
drawing out the whole truth, with all that had transpired. 

''0 ye miserable thinkers! " he exclaimed, as soon as he had 
satisfied himself of the true situation of affairs, "what, in the 
name of common sense, could have put ye up to such nonsense 
and folly as this? • Three decent efforts for a correct idea should 
have told you that the master would not be caught teaching, for 
nothing, so valuable a secret as the black art, if that art is all 
you suppose it to be. Why, by foretelling the rise in the markets, 
or the lucky number of the ticket that is to draw the highest prize 
in the next lottery, he can make an independent fortune in six 
months, if he will keep his secret to himself; but if he goes and 
imparts this faculty to others, they will get away all his chances 
for such luck, and his art won't be worth a farthing to him. Do 
you believe he would do such a foolish thing? No ! not a soul of 
you. There is thought number one for you. 

"Again — what could make you think that the teaching of this 
art ever did, or could, bring ill-health, either upon the teacher or 
the taught? This was never a fact. Is there anything said in 
the Bible about the magicians, witches, or diviners, or their fol- 
lowers, being taken sickly for their practices? Did Simon Magus 
make anybody sick? Did the sorceress, or black-art girl, that 
St. Paul converted, carry disease in her train? No; for she had 
brought her master a good deal of money by telling folk's for- 
tunes: when, if she had brought sickness and Judgments upon 



230 THE TEACHER IN LITERATUEE. 

them, they would have given him more money to have kept her 
away. 

"Nor was there any such misfortunes connected with the 
witchcraft in the old Bay State. Doctor Mather, even in his 
book, don't say so; for I have heard it read. The bewitched, 
according to his story, only acted and appeared a little wild 
and devilish. But, if his book had said this, it would amount 
to nothing; for I don't believe, if the old Nick himself should 
turn book-maker to-day, and sit down, with his old yellow, 
brimstone-tempered steel pen, and do his best, for a month, he 
could get more of the real essence of falsehood between the two 
lids of a book, than can be found in the book I've mentioned. 
And if ever that learned doctor — for he was accounted pious — 
gets within the walls of the New Jerusalem, he will find, I fear, 
when he comes to see what suffering, death, and crime were 
brought about through his influence and example, as well as he 
might mean, that heaven will be rather an uneasy place for him. 
But, supposing the judgments of sickness, and so on, did attend 
such doings, what then? How would it stand in the present 
case? Why, the master, by the very art that was to produce the 
misfortune, w^ould know that the misfortune would follow his 
attempt to teach it. And do you think he would try it, when he 
knew it would bring sickness and trouble on his school, that must 
break it up, cost him the loss of all his wages, and, what is more, 
send him off with a character that would forever prevent his get- 
ting another school? Would he be such a stupid fool as to do 
this? Never! and you all now^ see and know it. There is thought 
number two for you. 

"Once more. In what I have said, I have taken you wholly 
on your own ground; so that you should not say 1 could meet 
you only on my own dunghill. I will now make you come on to 
my ground, and see if you can stand fire any better there. And 
this is my ground : — I say that this black art, as you understand 
it, the faculty of foretelling events, together with sorcery, magic, 
or witchery, and every other art that lays claim to any such fac- 
ulty by the aid of figures, or anything else, is all moonshine, im- 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 231 

position, and falsehood. And I don't want to set before you but 
one single idea to make you know and feel the truth of my asser- 
tion. Now follow me. Did you ever know or hear of a rich 
fortune-teller, black -art-worker, or conjurer? Speak out, if you 
ever did. A single one that was rich, I say. You don't speak? 
No ; for you can't say you ever did hear of such an one. You all 
well know that they are a set of poor, beggarly rascals from be- 
ginning to end. Well now, what prevents them, as I said of our 
master here, if the}^ have this faculty of looking or figuring into 
futurity, from seeing and seizing upon every lottery ticket that 
is to draw a good prize ; from buying every article in the markets 
that is about to rise greatly in price? What prevents them from 
doing this, and making their fortunes at a blow? Tell me, you, 
or you, or you. This is thought number three for you. 

"Now my number first pinned an argument upon you — even 
allowing you your own false premises — with nothing but a 
wooden pin that you could not break. My number second, still 
giving you the same advantage, put in a board nail, that, with 
or without the pin, not one of you could twist or move. And my 
number third puts a double ten clincher upon the whole, that 
all of you together can never start. Now stand forth and 
gainsay it, ye persecutors of the best teacher we ever had in 
the district, or forever hold your peace! No one speaks; and 
I pronounce the master guiltless and acquitted of your foolish 
charge. 

"But although the master is no way blamable, yet that an 
unusual number of the scholars are sick, and nearly all droop- 
ing, if I am rightly informed, I am not going to deny. And there 
is some cause for it, which we must try to discover, that we may 
stop the evil. If it is not the starting point of some epidemic 
disease that is about to spread over the country, why, then it 
must be owing to something wrong about the schoolhouse. By 
taking up the possibilities, one after another, I probably could 
think it out myself within twenty-four hours. But here is a man," 
continued the speaker, turning towards the doctor, "who has 
been in the way of thinking of such things half of his life. Let 



232 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

us have his opinion. Dr. Lincoln, will you favor us with your 
views on the subject of inquiry? " 

The doctor, who had attentively listened to the whole debate, 
much of which he had appeared to enjoy with the highest zest, 
now rose, and observed that he had already made up his 
mind to offer his opinion on the matter in question, before 
called on ; and he would now proceed to do so. He had some 
secret suspicion of the cause of the general unhealthiness of the 
school, on first learning the fact; and having come to the meet- 
ing, mainl^^ with the view of satisfying himself in relation to the 
matter, his attention, during the time he had been here, had 
been particularly directed to the subject ; and he was now pre- 
pared to say, that what was before a mere suspicion with him 
was now a confirmed opinion. The cause, and sole cause of this 
unhealthiness was the want of ventilation; and, from what he 
had suffered himself since in the room, although the door had 
been frequently opened, he was only surprised that the condition 
of the scholars was not infinitely worse than he understood it 
was. Though not wishing it to strengthen his own convictions, 
yet, as it might better convince others, he would proceed to set 
the matter in a stronger light before them. 

The doctor, then, while every ear and eye were regarding his 
words and movements with intense interest, called on Locke to 
ascertain the number of cubic feet contained in the empty space 
of the room. A carpenter present, who happened to have a bun- 
dle of his tools with him, having called into the meeting while on 
his way home from some finished job, produced a rule, and took 
the different dimensions of the apartment with great exactness; 
when Locke, from the data thus furnished, quickly ascertained 
and told off the number of cubic feet as required. This number, 
owing to the ill-advised construction of the schoolroom, in which 
the fioor rose from one side at so great an angle as to take up 
about one-sixth part of what would have been the space with a 
level floor, amounted only, with proper deductions for stove, 
seats, etc., to sixteen hundred cubic feet. 

" Now, let me observe," said the doctor, " that, from the latest 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 233 

and most accurate experiments o! chemists and medical men, it 
has been ascertained that one person, by respiration from the 
lungs alone, destroys all the oxygen, or vital principle, in thir- 
teen cubic feet of space per hour. How many scholars have you, 
Mr. Amsden?" 

"Sixty, upon the average, perhaps more, say sixty-four." 

"Ascertain, then, how many cubic feet of vital air these all will 
destroy in one hour." 

Both Locke and Bunker, the latter of whom now began to be 
in his element, almost the next instant gave the same answer — 
eight hundred and thirty-two feet. 

"How long do you generally keep them in without intermis- 
sion, in which the doors would necessarily remain open a moment 
while they were passing out ? " 

" Generally an hour and a half, sometimes two." 

"Then, gentlemen," said the doctor, "the true, but greatly 
misconceived, cause of your trouble and just alarm is now 
plainly before you. You see, by our calculation, that, in less 
than two hours, all the air that can sustain life a moment would 
be, in this new and almost bottle-tight room, if not renovated 
by opening the doors or windows, entirely consumed. And, tak- 
ing into the account the quantity of this vital principle inhaled 
by the pores of so many persons, and the probably greater por- 
tion destroyed by the fire and reflecting surface of the stove and 
pipe, I presume one hour is sufficient to render the air extremely 
unhealthy; an hour and a half, absolutely poisonous; and two 
hours, so fatally so as to cause your children to drop dead on 
the floor." 

" Thunder ! " exclaimed Bunker, " can this be so ? I long since 
knew that we were put upon our allowance, when in close rooms, 
for the right kind of breathing air ; but I never supposed there 
was so much death in the pot as that comes to. But that fact 
which you build upon — the amount of vital air a person destroys 
an hour — I am afraid, doctor, you got it only out of the books, 
which I am rather shy in trusting for what I call gospel." 

"Both from books and my own imperfect experiments," 



234 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

replied Lincoln, "and I am satisfied that the proportion is not 
rated too highly. But I have not quite done all that I propose 
in this case. We have now been in the room, I perceive by my 
watch, but three quarters of an hour, while there are not prob- 
ably over thirty persons present. And yet, even in this time, and 
with this number, I will ask you all, if you do not feel oppressed 
and uneasy from the impurity of the air here? " 

" I do — and I — and I too," responded several; while others, as 
the case was thus now brought home to their own senses, which 
plainly spoke in the affirmative, sprang forward in alarm to throw 
open the doors. 

''Not yet — not yet," said the doctor, interposing. <'We can 
live awhile longer ; and I wish in some degree to satisfy you, and 
particularly Captain Bunker here, whose thorough mode of com- 
ing at results I much admire, that what I have said is not alto- 
gether incapable of proof, even with the means at hand. Cannot 
our carpenter here, with a few minutes' work, so alter the cas- 
ings, that the upper sashes of these windows can be lowered some 
few inches?" 

Locke — who felt both pained and chagrined that his inatten- 
tion to this matter, in which he so well knew all the principles 
involved, should have so nearly led to disastrous consequences, 
and whose active mind, having seen through the whole subject at 
a glance, the moment the doctor put him on the track, had long 
since been engaged in devising a ready remedy for the discovered 
evil — here interposed, and suggested that an opening made in the 
center of the ceiling would best effect the object in view. 

" If it can be done? " inquiringly said the doctor. 

"Be done!" said Bunker, "yes it can. Here, carpenter, up 
in this chair with your tools, and make a hole through there, 
in no time. This business is just beginning to get through my 
hair." 

A few moments sufficed to make an aperture about eight 
inches square, opening into the attic story above; the square 
form being adopted, as best comporting with the simple contri- 
vance with which it was proposed to cover it — that of a mere 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 235 

board slide, supported by cleats, in which it would play back and 
forth, as the aperture required to be opened for ventilation, or 
shut to preserve the warmth of the room. Scarcely had the 
workman time to adjust the slide in its place, before every parti- 
cle of impure air had apparently escaped through the opening, 
to pass off by the crevices in the roof. All felt and acknowledged 
the change with astonishment and delight. The sensations of 
languor and oppression that had begun to weigh heavily on the 
feelings and spirits of the company, had left them almost as 
unexpectedly and suddenly as fell the bundle of sins from the 
back of Bunyan's Pilgrim. 

"Well, gentlemen," said Doctor Lincoln, as he looked round, 
and saw^ in the speaking countenances of the company that all 
were as well satisfied as they were gratified at the result; "I 
believe the mystery is now solved. At all events, I'll agree to 
cure for nothing all the scholars that are hereafter made sick 
from anything about the schoolhouse, or in the conduct of their 
master." 

"Yes, the room is as clear as a horn, by George! " exclaimed 
Bunker, "and the thing is done — proved out as square as a 
brick, right in our face and eyes ; and there is no getting a way from 
it. But what sticks in my crop is, that we must have a man — 
and a book man, too, though he plainly don't swallow^ books 
w^hole, without chewing, as most of 'em do — have a man come 
thirty miles to think it out for us ! Master, you and I ought to 
be trounced." 

"Well, Mr. Moderator," said the deacon's tormentor, the 
rustic humorist, we mean, who was the first to take up for Locke 
in the debate, and who now seemed greatly to enjoy the triumph 
of the latter over the little clique of his chop-fallen foes — " Well, 
Mr. Moderator, how is it about the old boy and his little blue 
influences, now? Don't you think they've pretty much all 
cleared out through that hole up yonder? Ah! I was about 
right, deacon: if the old chap had been any great affair, he 
couldn't have crept out through so small a hole as that comes 
to, quite so quick, you may depend on 't." 



236 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

But the deacon, who suddenly recollected a promise he had 
made to carry, that night, some thorough-wort to a jaundery 
neighbor, was in too much of a hurry to reply to such scoffing 
questions; and he, with one or two of his most zealous sup- 
porters, immediately quitted the house, leaving the rest of the 
vanquished party, whether superstitionists or alarmists, to join 
the master and his increasing number of friends, acknowledge 
their error, and reciprocate congratulations on the unexpectedly 
happy result of the whole of this singular affair. We say the 
whole ; for, before the company broke up, word was brought 
by one of the larger scholars, who had gone over to Widow 
Marvin's during the meeting, and just returned, that the sick 
boy there had fallen into a quiet sleep, attended by gentle per- 
spiration; — symptoms which the gratified doctor at once pro- 
nounced to be a plain indication that the disease was going off 
by what he technically termed resolution. And the result, in 
this case at least, went to prove the doctor's skill in prognostics. 
The boy, after that night, was consigned, by his departing phy- 
sician, to the care only of his grateful mother, who, within a 
fortnight, had the unspeakable happiness of seeing her darling 
son restored to health and his still loved but now more tem- 
perately pursued studies. 

Of the remainder of young Amsden's career in this district, 
little more need be added. Compared with the trials, vexa- 
tions, and labors of the past, he now found but a path of 
flowers. The recent misfortune in his school, and the conse- 
quent infatuated movement to overthrow him, operating as 
all overwrought persecutions usually do, instead of injuring 
him, were the means of turning the popular current strongly 
in his favor, and of giving him a place in the estimation oi 
nearly all around him which he otherwise would have failed to 
obtain. 

Being no further troubled with the injudicious interference of 
parents, or the misbehavior of their children, — those two evils 
which too often require the best part of a teacher's time and 
attention to meet and overcome — he had nothing to do but 



DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON. 237 

instruct his pupils. And by no means unprofitably did the latter 
use the opportunity thus afforded them. From a rough, wild, 
unthinking set of creatures, who could appreciate nothing but 
animal pleasures or physical prowess, they became rational 
beings, ambitious for the acquisition of knowledge, and capable 
of intellectual pleasures. A new standard of taste and merit, in 
short, had been imperceptibly raised among them ; and the win- 
ter that Locke Amsden kept school became an era in the district, 
from which commenced a visible and happy change in the whole 
moral and intellectual tone of its society. 

Nor were the advantages which attended his exertions in this 
place wholly on one side. In teaching others, the master himself 
was often taught. Questions were daily put to him, even by 
children in their abs, which led him to reflection, research, and 
discoveries of truths, which, thorough scholar as he was, he 
found, to his surprise, he had before overlooked, and which other- 
wise might never have occurred to him ; — discoveries, we repeat, 
of important truths, in almost every study of his school, and 
particularly in those of orthography, orthoepy, and etymology, 
those sadly neglected branches which require a philosopher to 
teach them understandingly, but which are yet, oftener than 
otherwise, intrusted to the teaching of an ignoramus ! 

In what is termed a phj^sical education, also, he here re- 
ceived hints which led him to the adoption of much more 
correct and enlarged views than any he had before entertained. 
His attention, indeed, had never been directed to the subject; 
and he had therefore continued to look upon it as did others 
around him, either as a matter of little importance, or. at best, 
as one which had no legitimate connection with popular edu- 
cation. But the painful and alarming occurrences which we 
have described, as arising from the want of ventilation in his 
schoolhouse, taught him a lesson which could not be disre- 
garded or easily forgotten ; caused him to give an earnest con- 
sideration to this subject in all its bearings, whether in relation 
to ventilation, length of confinement to study, or ease of posi- 



238 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

tion; and forced upon his mind the conviction, that physical 
education, or an observance of those laws of life which can only 
insure the health of the body, and the consequent health of the 
mind, is, as truly as any other, a part of an instructor's duty, 
for the performance of which, before high Heaven, he will be held 
responsible. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

1811-1863. 

William Makepeace Thackeray, a novelist and writer of the first 
rank, was born at Calcutta, India, in 1811. His father and his grand- 
father before him were both officers of the India civil government, 
but the son was educated in England, first at the Charterhouse School 
in London, and later at Cambridge, though without securing his uni- 
versity degree. He reached his majority in 1832 and inherited a small 
fortune, which was soon dispersed in various unsuccessful ventures, and, 
although with a predilection for art, after traveling widely on the con- 
tinent, expecting to take up painting as a profession, he finally turned 
his attention to literature, being first regularly introduced to the read- 
ing public through Fraser's Magazine. Later in his life he was editor of 
the CornbiJl Magazine. His first separate publication, " Vanity Fair,'' 
was issued in 1846, and at once established his reputation as a novelist. 
Subsequently he published "Pendennis," "Esmond," "The Newcombes," 
and " The Virginians." Thackeray excelled, not only as an able writer 
and critic, but also as a lecturer. His death, which came suddenly on 
Christmas Eve, 1863, is described as follows : 

"He went out Wednesday for a little, and came home at ten. He 
went to his room, suffering much, but declining his man's offer to sit 
with him. He hated to make others suffer. He was heard moaning, as 
if in pain, about twelve on the eve of Christmas morning. Then all was 
quiet, and then he must have died — in a moment. Next morning his 
man went in and, opening the windows, found his master dead, his arms 
behind his head, as if he had tried to take one more breath. We think 
of him as of our Chalmers, found dead in hke manner; the same child- 
like, unspoiled, open face; the same gentle mouth; the same spacious- 
ness and softness of nature; the same look of power. What a thing to 
think of — alone in the dark, in the midst of his own mighty London; 
his mother and his daughters asleep, and, it may be, dreaming of his 
goodness. God help them and us all." Johx Brown. 

characte riz ation . 

In 1846 was published, by Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, the first of 
twenty-four numbers of Vanity Fair, the work which first placed Thack- 
eray in his proper position before the public as a novelist and writer of 
the first rank. It was completed in 1848, when Thackeray was thirty- 

(239) 



240 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

seven years old; and in the same year Abraham Hay ward paid a tribute 
to the anchor's powers in the Edinburgh Review. It is probable that 
on Vanity Fair has been largely based the foolish cry, now heard less 
and less frequently, about Thackeray's cynicism, a cry which he himself, 
with his keen knowledge of men, foresaw and provided against, amply 
enough as one might have thought, at the end of the eighth chapter, in 
a passage which is perhaps the best commentary ever written on the 
author's method. He has explained how he wishes to describe men and 
women as they actually are, good, bad and indifferent, and to claim a 
privilege — 

" Occasionally to step down from the platform and talk about them ; if they are 
good and kindly, to love and shake them by the hand ; if they are silly, to laugh at 
them confidentially in the reader's sleeve; if they are wicked and heartless, to 
abuse them in the strongest terms politeness admits of. Otherwise you might 
fancy it was I who wa,s sneering at the practice of devotion, which Miss Sharp 
finds so ridiculous ; that it was I who laughed good-humoredly at the railing old 
Silenus of a baronet — whereas the laughter comes from one who has no reverence 
except for posterity, and no eye for anything beyond success. Suc^ people there 
are living and flourishing in the world — Faithless, Hopeless, Charityless: let us 
have at them, dear friends, with might and main. Some there are, and very suc- 
cessful too, mere quacks and fools: and it was to combat and expose such as those, 
no doubt, that laughter was made." 

What seems absolutely certain is that the force and variety of his 
genius and art will always hold for him a place as one of the greatest of 
English novelists and essayists, and, it should be added, as by no means 
the least of English critics. " Britannica." 

Miss Pinkerton's School on Chiswick Mall. 

(From "Vanity Fair.") 

While the present century was in its teens, and on one sun- 
shiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of 
Miss Pinkei'ton's academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, 
a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, 
driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the 
rate of four miles an hour. A black servant, who reposed on 
the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as 
soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's shining 
brass plate, and as he pulled the bell, at least a score of young 
heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the 
stately old brick house. Nay, the acute observer might have 
recognized the little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 241 

Pinkerton lierself, rising over some geraniiiTn pots in the window 
of that lady's own drawing room. 

" It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. " Sambo, 
the black servant, has just rung the bell, and the coachman has 
a new red waistcoat." 

'' Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident 
to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima ? " asked Miss Pinker- 
ton herself, that majestic lady; the Semiramis of Hammersmith, 
the friend of Doctor Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs. Chapone 
herself. 

" The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, 
sister, " replied Miss Jemima; "we have made her a bow-pot." 

" Say a boquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel. " 

"Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack. I have put up 
two bottles of the gillyflower water for Mrs. Sedley, and the 
receipt for making it, in Amelia's box." 

"And I trust. Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss 
Sedley's account. This is it, is it? Yery good— ninety-three 
pounds, four shillings. Be kind enough to address it to John 
Sedley, Esq., and to seal this billet which 1 have written to his 
lady." 

In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister. Miss 
Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as would have 
been a letter from a sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted 
the establishment, or when they were about to be married, and 
once, when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss 
Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents of her 
pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion that if anything could 
console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would be that 
pious and eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkerton 
announced the event. 

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the 
following effect : 

"The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18—. 

"Madam, — After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honor 
and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a 
T. L.— 16 



242 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished 
and refined circle. Those virtues which characterize the young English 
gentlewoman, those accomplishments which become her birth and sta- 
tion, will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose 
industry and obedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose 
delightful sweetness of temper has charmed her aged and her youthful 
companions. 

"In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery 
and needlework, she will be found to have realized her friends' fondest 
wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful 
and undeviating use of the backboard, for four hours daily during the 
next three years, is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of 
that dignified deportment and carriage, so requisite for every young 
lady of fashion. 

"In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found 

worthy of an establishment which has been honored by the presence of 

The Great Lexicographer and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. 

Chapone. In leaving the Mall, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts 

of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has 

the honor to subscribe herself, madam, 

" Your most obliged humble servant, 

"Barbara Pinkerton. 

"P. S. — Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly re- 
quested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten 
days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged desire to 
avail themselves of her services as soon as possible." 

This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her 
own name and Miss Sedley 's in the fly-leaf of a "Johnson's Dic- 
tionary " — the interesting work which she invariably presented to 
her scholars, on their departure from the Mall. On the cover 
was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to a young lady on 
quitting Miss Pinkerton's school at the Mall ; by the late revered 
Dr. Samuel Johnson." In fact the Lexicographer's name was 
always on the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had 
paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her fortune. 

Being commanded by her elder sister to get the "Dixionary" 
from the cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the 
book from the receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had 
finished the inscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious 
and timid air, handed her the second. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 243 

" For whom is this, Miss Jemima? " said Miss Pinkerton, with 
awful coldness. 

"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, 
and blushing over her withered face and neck, as she turned her 
back on her sister—" for Becky Sharp; she's going too." 

"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest 
capitals. "Are you in your senses? Replace the ' Dixionary ' in 
the closet, and never venture to take such a liberty in future." 

" Well, sister, it's only two and ninepence, and poor Becky will 
be miserable if she don't get one." 

"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," said Miss Pinkerton. And 
so venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off, 
exceedingly flurried and nervous. 

Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of 
some wealth; whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, for 
whom Miss Pinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, 
without conferring upon her at parting the high honor of the 
"Dixionary." 

Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more 
nor less than church epitaphs; yet, as it sometimes hap- 
pens that a person departs this life who is really deserving of 
all the praises that the stone-cutter carves over his bones; who 
is a good Christian, a good parent, child, wife, or husband ; who 
actually does leave a disconsolate family to mourn his loss; so 
in academies of the male and female sex it occurs every now 
and then that the pupil is fully worthy of the praises bestowed 
by the disinterested instructor. Now, Miss Amelia Sedley was 
a young lady of this singular species, and deserved not only all 
that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had many charming 
qualities which that pompous old Minerva of a woman could not 
see, from the differences of rank and age between her pupil and 
herself. 

For she could not only sing like a lark or a Mrs. BilHngton, 
and dance like Hillisberg or Parisot, and embroider beautifully, 
and spell as well as a dictionary itself; but she had such a 
kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own, as 



244 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

won the love of everybody who came near her, from Minerva 
down to the poor girl in the scullery, and the one-eyed tart 
woman's daughter, who was permitted to vend her wares once 
a week to the young ladies in the Mall. She had twelve inti- 
mate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young ladies. 
Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her; high and 
mighty Miss Saltire (Lord Dexter's granddaughter) allowed 
that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the rich 
woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt's, on the day Amelia went 
away, she was in such a passion of tears that they were obliged 
to send for Dr. Floss, and half tipsify her with sal-volatile. 
Miss Pinkerton's attachment was, as may be supposed, from the 
high position and eminent virtues of that lady, calm and dig- 
nified; but Miss Jemima had already w^himpered several times 
at the idea of Amelia's departure ; and but for fear of her sister, 
would have gone off in downright hysterics, like the heiress 
(w^ho paid double) of St. Kitt's. Such luxury of grief, however, 
is only allowed to parlor boarders. Honest Jemima had all the 
bills, and the washing, and the mending, and the puddings, and 
the plate and crockery, and the servant's to superintend. But 
why speak about her? It is probable that we shall not hear of 
her again from this moment to the end of time, and that, when 
the great filigree iron gates are once closed on her, she and her 
awful sister will never issue therefrom into this little world of 
history. 

But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, therejs no harm 
in saying, at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a dear 
little creature; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in novels, 
which (and the latter especially) abound in villains of the most 
somber sort, that we are to have for a constant companion so 
guileless and good-natured a person. As she is not a heroine, 
there is no need to describe her person; indeed, I am afraid that 
her nose was rather short than otherwise, and her cheeks a great 
deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with 
rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and she had 
a pair of eyes that sparkled with the brightest and honestest 



WILLLUI MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 245 

good-humor, except, indeed, when they filled with tears, and that 
was a great deal too often ; for the silly thing would cry over 
a dead canary-bird; or over a mouse, that the cat haply had 
seized upon; or over the end of a novel, were it ever so stupid; 
and as for saying an unkind word to her, were any person hard- 
hearted enough to doso — why, so much the worse for them. 
Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere and god-like woman, ceased 
scolding her after the first time, and though she no more com- 
prehended sensibility than she did algebra, gave all masters and 
teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost 
gentleness, as harsh treatment was injurious to her. 

So that when the day of departure came, between her two cus- 
toms of laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled 
how to act. She was glad to go home, and yet most wofully sad 
at leaving school. For three days before, little Laura Martin, 
the orphan, followed her about like a little dog. She had to make 
and receive at least fourteen presents — to make fourteen solemn 
promises of writing every week : " Send my letters under cover to 
my grandpapa, the Earl of Dexter," said MissSaltire (who, by the 
way, was rather shabby). "Never mind the postage, but write 
every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous and woolly- 
headed, but generous and affectionate Miss Swartz; and the or- 
phan, little Laura Martin (who was just in round-hand) took 
her friend's hand and said looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, 
when I write to you, I shall call you mamma." All which details, 
I have no doubt, Jones, who reads this book at his club, will 
pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra- 
sentimental. Yes ; I can see Jones at this minute (rather flushed 
with his joint of mutton and half-pint of wine) taking out his 
pencil and scoring under the words "foolish, twaddling," etc., 
and adding to them his own remark of " quite true.'' Well, he is 
a lofty man of genius, and admires the great and heroic in life and 
novels, and so had better take warning and go elsewhere. 

Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks 
and bonnet boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. 
Sambo in the carriage, together with a very small and weather- 



246 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

beaten old cow's-skin trunk, with Miss Sharp's card neatly 
nailed upon it, which was delivered by Sambo with a grin, and 
packed by the coachman Avith a corresponding sneer — the hour 
for parting came; and the grief of that moment was consider- 
ably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton 
addressed to her pupil. Not that the parting speech caused 
Amelia to philosophize, or that it armed her in any way with 
calmness, ' the result of argument; but it was intolerably dull, 
pompous, and tedious ; and having the fear of her schoolmis- 
tress greatly before her eyes. Miss Sedley did not venture, in her 
presence, to give away to any ebullitions of private grief. A 
seed-cake and a bottle of wine were produced in the drawing- 
room, as on the solemn occasions of the visit of parents, and 
these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley was at liberty 
to depart. 

"You'll go in and say good-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky !'^ 
said Miss Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any 
notice, and who was coming down-stairs with her own band-box. 

"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp, calmly, and much to 
the wonder of Miss Jemima ; and the latter having knocked at 
the door and receiving permission to come in. Miss Sharp ad- 
vanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, and 
with a perfect accent : 

"Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux. ^' 

"Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; she only di- 
rected those who did ; but biting her lips and throwing up her 
venerable and Roman-nosed head (on top of which figured a 
large and solemn turban), she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a 
good-morning." As the Hammersmith Semiramis spoke, she 
waved one hand both by way of adieu, and to give Miss Sharp 
an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand which 
was left out for that purpose. 

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid 
smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered 
honor; on which Semiramis tossed up her turban more indig- 
nantly than ever. In fact it was a little battle between the 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 247 

young lady and the old one, and the latter was worsted. 
"Heaven bless you, my child," said she, embracing Amelia, 
and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder at Miss Sharp. 
"Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young 
woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room door closed 
upon them forever. 

Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse 
to tell it. All the servants were there in the tfall — all the dear 
friends — all the young ladies — the dancing-master who had 
just arrived ; and there was such a scuflSing, and hugging, and 
kissing, and crying, with the hysterical yoops of Miss Swartz, 
the parlor-boarder, from her room, as no pen can depict, and as 
the tender heart would fain pass over. The embracing was 
over; they parted — that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. 
Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes 
before. Nobody cried for leaving her. 

Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage-door on his 
young weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. 
" Stop ! " cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel. 

"It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. "You 
may be hungry, you know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here's a 
book for you that my sister — that is I — ' Johnson's Dixionary,' 
you know ; you mustn't leave us without that. Good-by. . Drive 
on, coachman. God bless you ! " 

And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome 
with emotions. 

But lo ! and just as the coach drove off. Miss Sharp put her 
pale face out of the window, and actually flung the book back 
into the garden. 

This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. "Well, I 
never" — said she — "what an audacious" — emotion prevented 
her from completing either sentence. The carriage rolled away; 
the great gates were closed ; the bell rang for the dancing lesson. 
The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to 
Chiswick Mall. 



248 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

When Miss Sharp had performed the heroical act mentioned 
in the last chapter, and had seen the "Dixionary," flying over 
the pavement of the little garden, fall at length at the feet of 
the astonished Miss Jemima, the young lady's countenance, 
which had before worn an almost livid look of hatred, assumed 
a smile that perhaps was scarcely more agreeable, and she sank 
back in the carriage in an easy frame of mind, saying, "So much 
for the 'Dixionary ;' and, thank God, I'm out of Chiswick." 

Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as 
Miss Jemima had been; for consider, it was but one minute that 
she had left school, and the impressions of six years are not got 
over in that space of time. Nay, with some persons those awes 
and terrors of youth last forever and ever. 1 know, for instance, 
an old gentleman of sixty-eight, who said to me one morning at 
breakfast, with a very agitated countenance, "I dreamed last 
night that I w^as flogged by Dr. Raine." Fancy had carried him 
back five-and-fifty years in the course of that evening. Dr. 
Raine and his rod were just as awful to him in his heart then at 
sixty-eight, as they had been at thirteen. If the doctor, with a 
large birch, had appeared bodily to him, even at the age of 
threescore and eight, and had said in awful voice, "Boy, take 

down your pant " Well, well. Miss Sedley was exceedingly 

alarmed at this act of insubordination. 

"How could you do so, Rebecca?" at last she said, after a 
pause. 

"Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order 
me back to the black hole? " said Rebecca, laughing. 

uNo; but " 

" I hate the whole house," continued Miss Sharp in a fury. " I 
hope I may never set eyes on it again. I wish it were in the bot- 
tom of the Thames, I do ; and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I 
wouldn't pick her out, that I wouldn't. Oh, how I should like to 
see her floating in the water j^onder, turban and all, with her 
train streaming after her, and her nose like the beak of a 
wherry!" 

" Hush ! " cried Miss Sedley. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 249 

"Why, will the black footman tell tales?" cried Miss Rebecca, 
laughing. "He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I hate 
her with all my soul ; and I wish he would ; and I wish I had a 
means of proving it, too. For two years I have only had 
insults and outrage from her. I have been treated worse than 
any servant in the kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind 
word, except from you. I have been made to tend the little girls 
in the lower schoolroom, and to talk French to the Misses, until 
I grew sick of my mother-tongue. But that talking French to 
Miss Pinkerton was capital fun, wasn't it? She doesn't know a 
word of French, and was too proud to confess it. I believe it was 
that which made her part with me; and so thank Heaven for 
French. Vire la France I Vive TEmpereur I Vive Bonaparte .^ " 

"0, Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this 
was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet uttered; and in 
those days in England to say, "Long live Bonaparte!" was as 
much as to say, " Long live Lucifer ! " " How can you, how dare 
you, have such wicked, revengeful thoughts?" 

"Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural," answered Miss 
Rebecca. "I'm no angel." And, to say the truth, she certainly 
was not. 

For it maybe remarked in the course of this little conversation 
(which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the river- 
side) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to 
thank Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for ridding her of 
some person whom she hated, and secondly, for enabling her to 
bring her enemies to some sort of perplexity or confusion; neither 
of which are very amiable motives for religious gratitude, or such 
as would be put forward by persons of a kind and placable dispo- 
sition. Miss Rebecca was not, then, in the least kind or placable. 
All the world used her ill, said this young misanthropist, and we 
may be pretty certain that persons whom all the world treats ill, 
deserve entirely the treatment they get. The world is a looking- 
glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. 
Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you ; laugh at 
it, and with it, and it is a jolly, kind companion ; and so let all 



250 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

young persons take their choice. This is certain, that if the 
world neglected Miss Sharp, she never was known to have done a 
good action in behalf of anybody; nor can it be expected that 
twenty-four young ladies should all be as amiable as the heroine 
of this work, Miss Sedley (whom we have selected for the very 
reason that she was the best-natured of all, otherwise what on 
earth was to have prevented us from putting up Miss Swartz, or 
Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins as heroine in her place? ) — it could 
not be expected that everyone should be of the humble and gentle 
temper of Miss Amelia Sedley, should take every opportunity to 
vanquish Kebecca's hard-heartedness and ill-humor, and, by a 
thousand kind words and offices, overcome for once at least her 
hostility to her kind. 

Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality had 
given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a 
clever man, a pleasant companion, a careless student, with a 
great propensity for running into debt, and a partiality for the 
tavern. When he was drunk, he used to beat his wife and 
daughter; and the next morning, with a headache, he would 
rail at the world for its neglect of his genius, and abuse with a 
good deal of cleverness, and sometimes with perfect reason, the 
fools, his brother painters. As it was with the utmost difficulty 
that he could keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile 
round Soho, where he lived, he thought to better his circum- 
stances by marrying a young woman of the French nation, who 
was by profession an opera girl. The humble calling of her 
female parent Miss Sharp never alluded to, but used to state 
subsequently that the Entrechats were a noble family of Gas- 
cony, and took great pride in her descent from them. And 
curious it is that, as she advanced in life, this young ladj^'s 
ancestors increased in rank and splendor. 

Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and 
her daughter spoke French with purit^^ and a Parisian accent. 
It was in those days rather a rare accomplishment, and led to 
her engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. For her 
mother being dead, her father, finding himself not likely to 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 251 

recover, after his third attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly 
and pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan 
child to her protection, and so descended to the grave, after two 
bailiffs had quarreled over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen 
when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as an articled 
pupil; her duties being to talk French, as we have seen; and her 
privileges to live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to 
gather scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended 
the school. 

She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and 
with eyes habitually cast down; when they looked up, they 
were very large, odd, and attractive; so attractive that the Rev- 
erend Mr. Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of 
Chiswick, the Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss 
Sharp; being shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired 
all the way across Chiswick Church from the school-pew to the 
reading-desk. This infatuated young man used sometimes to 
take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he had been presented 
by his mamma, and actually proposed something like marriage 
in an intercepted note, which the one-eyed apple-woman was 
charged to deliver. Mrs. Crisp was summoned from Buxton 
and abruptly carried off her darling boy; but the idea, even, 
of such an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a great flutter 
in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent away 
Miss Sharp, but that she was bound to her under a forfeit, and 
who never could thoroughly believe the young lady's protesta- 
tions that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr. 
Crisp, except under her own eyes on the two occasions when 
she had met him at tea. 

By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the 
establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had 
the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked 
to, and turned away from her father's door ; many a tradesman 
had she coaxed and wheedled into good humor, and into the 
granting of one meal more. She sat commonly with her father, 
who was very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of many of 



252 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

his ^Yild companions — often but ill-suited for a girl to hear. But 
she never had been a, girl, she said; she had been a woman since 
she was eight years old. 0, why did Miss Pinkerton let such a 
dangerous bird into her cage? 

The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest 
creature in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when her 
father brought her to Chis wick, used Rebecca to perform the part 
of the ingenue; and only a year before the arrangement by which 
Rebecca had been admitted into her house, and when Rebecca 
was sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically and with a 
little speech made her a present of a doll — which was, by the 
way, the confiscated property of Miss Swindle, discovered sur- 
reptitiously nursing it in school hours. How the father and 
daughter laughed as they trudged home together after the even- 
ing party (it was on the occasion of the speeches, when all the 
professors were invited), and how Miss Pinkerton would have 
raged had she seen the caricature of herself which the little 
mimic, Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll! Becky used 
to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of New- 
man Street, Gerard Street, and the artists' quarter; and the 
young painters, when they came to take their gin-and-water with 
their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior, used regularly to ask 
Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home; she was as well known 
to them, poor soul, as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once 
she had the honor to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which 
she brought back Jemima, and erected another doll as Miss 
Jemmy; for though that honest creature had made and given 
her jelly and cake enough for three children, and a seven-shilling 
piece at parting, the girl's sense of ridicule was far stronger than 
her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly 
as her sister. 

The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to 
Tier home. The rigid formality of the place suffocated her; the 
prayers and the meals, the lessons and the walks, which were 
arranged with a conventual regularity, oppressed her almost 
beyond endurance ; and she looked back to the freedom and the 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 253 

beggary of the old studio in Soho with so much regret that 
everybody, herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief 
for her father. She had a little room in the garret, where the 
maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it was with 
rage and not with grief. She had not been much of a dissembler, 
until now her loneliness taught her to feign. " She had never 
mingled in the society of women; her father, reprobate as he was, 
Avas a man of talent; his conversation was a thousand times 
more agreeable to her than the talk of such of her own sex as she 
now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old schoolmis- 
tress, the foolish good-humor of her sister, the silly chat and 
scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of the gov- 
ernesses equally annoyed her; and she had no soft maternal 
heart, this unlucky girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the 
younger children, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, 
might have soothed and interested her; but she lived among 
them two years, and not one w^as sorry that she went away. The 
gentle, tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to 
whom she could attach herself in the least; and who could help 
attaching herself to Amelia ? 

The happiness, the superior advantages of the yoimg women 
round about her gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. 
"What airs that girl gives herself because she is an earl's grand- 
daughter," she said of one. '' How they cringe and bow to that 
Creole, because of her hundred thousand pounds! I am a 
thousand times cleverer and more charming than that creature, 
for all her wealth. I am as well bred as the earl's grand- 
daughter, for all her fine pedigree; and j^et everyone passes me 
by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not the men 
give up their gayest balls and parties in order to pass the even- 
ing with me?" She determined, at any rate, to get free from 
the prison in which she found herself, and now began to act for 
herself, and for the first time to make connected plans for the 
future. 

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place 
offered her; and as she was already a musician and a good 



254 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

linguist, she speedily went through the little course of study 
which was considered necessary for ladies in those days. Her 
music she practiced incessantly, and one day, when the girls 
were out and she had remained at home, she was overheard to 
play a piece so well that Minerva thought wisely, she could 
spare herself the expense of a master for the juniors, and inti- 
mated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct them in music for 
the future. 

The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the astonish- 
ment of the majestic mistress of the school. "I am here to 
speak French with the children," Kebecca said, abruptly, "not 
to teach them music, and save money for you. Give me money, 
and I will teach them." 

Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked her 
from that day. "For five-and-thirty years," she said, and with 
grave justice, "I never have seen the individual who has dared 
in my own house to question my authority. I have nourished a 
viper in my bosom," 

"A viper — a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp to the old lady, 
almost fainting with astonishment. "You took me because I 
was useful. There is no question of gratitude between us. I 
hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing here but 
what I am obliged to do." 

It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware 
she was speaking to Miss Pinkerton? Eebecca laughed in her 
face, with a horrid, sarcastic, demoniacal laughter, that almost 
sent the schoolmistress into fits. "Give me a sum of money," 
said the girl, "and get rid of me — or, if you like better, get me 
a good place as governess in a nobleman's family— you can do 
so if you please." And in their further disputes she always 
returned to this point. "Get me a situation — we hate each 
other, and 1 am ready to go." 

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Rdman nose and 
a turban, and was as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to 
this time an irresistible princess, had no will or strength like 
that of her little apprentice, and in vain did battle against her, 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 255 

and tried to overawe her. Attempting once to scold her in pub- 
lic, Eebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of answering her 
in French, which quite routed the old woman. In order to 
maintain her authority in her school, it became necessary to 
remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent, this firebrand; 
and hearing about this time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was 
in want of a governess, she actually recommended Miss Sharp 
for the situation, firebrand and serpent as she was. ''I cannot, 
certainly," she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp's conduct, 
except to myself, and must allow that her talents and accom- 
plishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, at least, 
she does credit to the educational system pursued at my estab- 
lishment." 

And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to 
her conscience, and the indentures were canceled, and the appren- 
tice was free. 



Dr. Swishtail's Academy. 

(From "Vanity Fair.") 

Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue of that 
contest, will long be remembered by every man who was educa- 
ted at Dr. Swishtail's famous school. The latter youth (who 
used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, and by many 
other names indicative of puerile contempt) was the quietest, 
the clumsiest, and, as it seemed, the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's 
young gentlemen. His parent was a grocer in the City; audit 
was bruited abroad that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtail's 
academy upon what was called "mutual principles " — that is to 
say, the expenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by 
his father in goods, not money; and he stood there— almost at 
the bottom of the school, in his scraggy corduroys and jacket, 
through the seams of which his great big bones were bursting — 
as the representative of so many pounds of tea, candles, sugar, 
mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion was sup- 
plied for the puddings of the establishment), and other com- 



256 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

modities. A dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of 
the youngsters of the school, having run into the town upon a 
poaching excursion for hardbake and polonies, espied the cart of 
Dobbin & Kudge, grocers and oilmen, Thames street, London, 
at the doctor's door, discharging a cargo of the wares in which 
the firm dealt. 

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were fright- 
ful, and merciless against him. "Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would 
say, "here's good news in the paper. Sugar is ris', my boy." 
Another would set a sum: "If a pound of mutton candles cost 
seven-pence-half -penny, how much must Dobbin cost?" and a 
roar would follow from all the circle of young knaves, usher and 
all, who rightly considered that the selling of goods by retail is a 
shameful and infamous practice, meriting the contempt and 
scorn of all real gentlemen. 

"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in 
private to the little boy who had brought down the storm upon 
him. At which the latter replied, haughtily, " My father's a gen- 
tleman, and keeps his carriage;" and Mr. William Dobbin 
retreated to a remote outhouse in the playground, where he 
passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness and woe. Who 
amongst us is there that does not recollect similar hours of 
bitter, bitter childish grief? Who feels injustice, who shrinks 
before a slight, who has a sense of wrong so acute, and so glow- 
ing a gratitude for kindness, as a generous boy? and how many 
of those gentle souls do you degrade, estrange, torture, for the 
sake of a little loose arithmetic and miserable dog Latin? 

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacit}^ to acquire the rudi- 
ments of the above language, as they are propounded in that 
wonderful book, the "Eton Latin Grammar," was compelled to 
remain among the very last of Dr. Swishtail's scholars, and was 
"taken down" continually by little fellows with pink faces and 
pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, a giant 
amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog-eared 
primer, and his tight corduroys. High and low all made fun of 
him. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 257 

cut his bed-striogs. They upset buckets and benches, so that he 
might break his shins over them, which he never failed to do. 
They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were found to con- 
tain the paternal soap and candles. There was no little fellow 
but had his jeer and Joke at Dobbin; and he bore everything 
quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable. 

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the 
Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town 
boys. Ponies used to come for him to ride home on Saturdays. 
He had his top-boots in his room, in which he used to hunt in the 
holidays. He had a gold repeater; and took snuff like the doc- 
tor. He had been to the opera, and knew the merits of the 
principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could 
knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. He could make 
French poetry. What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? 
They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of him. 

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his sub- 
jects and bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one 
blacked his shoes ; that toasted his bread ; others would fag out, 
and give him balls at cricket during whole summer afternoons. 
"Figs" was the fellow whom he despised most, and with whom, 
though always abusing him and sneering at him, he scarcely ever 
condescended to hold personal communication. 

One day in private the two young gentlemen had had a differ- 
ence. Figs, alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a 
home letter; when Cuff entering, bade him go upon some mes- 
sage of which tarts were probably the subject. 

"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter." 

''You can^t?'^ says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in 
which many words were scratched out, many were misspelt, on 
which had been spent I don't know how much thought, and labor, 
and tears; for the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who 
was fond of him, although she was a grocer's wife and lived in a 
back parlor in Thames Street) — "you can^t?'" says Mr. Cuff. 
"I should like to know why, pray? Can't you write to old 
Mother Figs to-morrow? " 

T, L.— 17 



258 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

''Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench, very 
nervous. 

"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school. 

"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman 
readth letterth." 

" Well, now will you go? " says the other. 

"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll tbmash you," roars out 
Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked 
that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coat-sleeves again, put 
his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a sneer. But 
he never meddled personally with the grocer's boy after that; 
though we must do him the justice to say he always spoke of 
Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back. 

Some time after this interview it happened that Mr. Cuff, on 
a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighborhood of poor William 
Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the playground, spell- 
ing over a favorite copy of the "Arabian Nights," which he 
had — apart from the rest of the school, who were pursuing their 
various sports — quite lonely, and almost happy. If people 
would but leave children to themselves; if teachers would cease 
to bully them; if parents would not insist upon directing their 
thoughts, and dominating their feelings — those feelings and 
thoughts which are a mystery to all (for how much do you and 
I know of each other, of our children, of our fathers, of our 
neighbors, and how far more beautiful and sacred are the 
thoughts of the poor lad or girl whom you govern likely to be, 
than those of the dull and world-corrupted person who rules 
him) — if, I say, parents and masters would leave their childrep 
alone a little more— small harm would accrue, although a lesa 
quantity of as in prsesenti might be acquired. 

Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and 
was away with Sinbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or 
with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanou in that delightful 
cavern where the prince found her, and whither we should all like 
to make a tour, when shrill cries, as of a little fellow weeping, 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 259 

woke up his pleasant reverie; and looking up he saw Cuff before 
him, belaboring a little boy. 

It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's 
cart; but he bore little malice, not at least toward the young 
and small. " How dare you, sir, break the bottle? " says Cuff to 
the little urchin, swinging a yellow cricket-stump over him. 

The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall 
(at a selected spot where the broken glass had been removedfrom 
the top, and niches made convenient in the brick) ; to run a 
quarter of a mile; to purchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit; to 
brave all the Doctor's outlying spies, and to clamber back into 
the playground again; during the performance of which feat his 
foot had slipped, and the bottle was broken, and the shrub had 
been spilled, and his pantaloons had been damaged, and he ap- 
peared before his employer a perfectly guilty and trembling, 
though harmless, wretch. 

"How dare you, sir, break it? "says Cuff; ''you blundering 
little thief! You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have 
broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir." 

Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's 
hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Perib- 
anou had fled into the inmost cavern with Prince Ahmed ; the 
Roc had whisked away Sinbad the Sailor out of the Valley of 
Diamonds, out of sight, far into the clouds; and there was every- 
day life before honest William; and a big boy beating a little one 
without cause. 

'^ Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little school- 
fellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and 
gathered himself up in his narrow old clothes. 

''Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down came 
the wicket again on the child's hand. Don't be horrified, ladies, 
every boy at a public school has done it. Your children will do 
so and be done by in all probability. Down came the wicket 
again, and Dobbin started up. 

I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a public school 
is as much licensed as the knout in Russia. It would be 



260 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ungentleman-like (in a manner) to resist it. Perhaps Dobbin's 
foolish soul revolted against that exercise of tyranny; or per- 
haps he had a hankering feeling of revenge in his mind, and 
longed to measure himself against that splendid bully and 
tyrant who had all the glory, pride^ pomp, circumstance, 
banners flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in the place. 
Whatever ma^'' have been his incentive, however, up he sprang, 
and screamed out, "Hold off. Cuff; don't bully that child any 
more; or I'll " 

"Or 3^ou'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this inter- 
ruption. "Hold out your hand, you little beast ! " 

"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life, " 
Dobbin said, in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence; and 
little Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder and 
incredulity at seeing this amazing champion put up suddenly 
to defend him; while Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less. 
Fancy our late monarch, George III., when he heard of the 
revolt of the North American colonies; fancy brazen Goliath 
when little David stepped forward and claimed a meeting; and 
you have the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when this rencontre 
was proposed to him. 

"After school," says he, of course; after a pause and a look 
as much as to say, "Make your will, and communicate your 
best wishes to your friends between this time and that. " 

"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle- 
holder, Osborne." 

"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see his 
papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his cham- 
pion. 

Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed to 
say, "Go it. Figs;" and not a single other boy in the place 
uttered that cry for the first two or three rounds of this famous 
combat; at the commencement of which the scientific Cuff, 
with a contemptuous smile on his face, and as light and as gay 
as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon his adversary, 
and floored that unlucky champion three times running. At 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 261 

each fall there was a cheer; and everybody was anxious to 
have the honor of offering the conqueror a kneet 

•'What a licking I shall get when it's over! " 3^oung Osborne 
thought, picking up his man. "You'd best give in," he said to 
Dobbin; " it's only a thrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to 
it." But Figs, all whose limbs were in a quiver, and whose nos- 
trils were breathing rage, put his little bottle-holder aside, and 
went in for a fourth time. 

As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that 
were aimed at himself, and Cuff had begun tlie attack on the 
three preceding occasions, without ever allowing his enemy to 
strike, Figs now determined that he would commence the engage- 
ment by a charge on his own part; and accordingly, being a left- 
handed man, brought that arm into action, and hit out a couple 
of times with all his might — once at Mr. Cuff's left eye, and once 
on his beautiful Roman nose. 

Cuff went down this time to the astonishment of the assem- 
bly. *' Well hit, by Jove! " says little Osborne, with the air of a 
connoisseur, clapping his man on the back. "Give it him with 
the left, Figs, my boy." 

Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the com- 
bat. Cuff went down every time. At the sixth round there were 
almost as many fellows shouting out, "Go it, Figs!" as there 
were youths exclaiming, "Go it. Cuff!" At the twelfth round 
the latter champion was all abroad, as the saying is, and had 
lost all presence of mind and power of attack or defense. Figs, 
on the contrary, was as calm as a Quaker. His face being quite 
pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on his under lip 
bleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly 
air, which perhaps struck terror into many spectators. Never- 
theless, his intrepid adversary prepared to close for the thirteenth 
time. 

If I had the pen of a Napier, or a BelFs Life, I should like to 
describe this combat properly. It was the last charge of the 
Guard (that is it would have been only Waterloo had not yet 
taken place)— it was Ney's column breasting the hill of La Haye 



262 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Sainte, bristling with ten thousand bayonets, and crowned with 
twenty eagles — it was the shout of the beef-eating British, as, 
leaping down the hill, they rushed to hug the enemy in the savage 
arms of battle— in other words. Cuff coming up full of pluck, but 
quite reeling and groggy , the Fig-merchant put in his left as usual 
on his adversary's nose, and sent him down for the last time. 

"I think that will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent 
dropped as neatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball 
plump into the pocket at billiards; and the fact is, when time 
was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was not able, or did not choose, 
to stand up again. 

And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would 
make you think he had been their darling champion through the 
whole battle; and as absolutely brought Dr. Swishtail out of his 
study, curious to know the cause of the uproar. He threatened 
to flog Figs violently, of course; but Cuff, who had come to him- 
self by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and 
said, "It was my fault, sir — not Figs's — not Dobbin's. I was 
bullying a little boy; and he served me right." By which mag- 
nanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but 
got back all his ascendency over the boys, which his defeat had 
nearly cost him. 

Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the 
transaction. 

"Sugarcane House, Richmond, March 18—. 
"Dear Mamma— I hope you are quite well. I should be much obhged 
to you to send me a cake aud five shillings. There has been a fight here 
between Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School. 
They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now Only 
Second Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breaking 
a bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because 
his father is a Grocer — Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City — I think as he 
fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar at his father's. Cuff 
goes home every Saturday, but can't this, because he has 2 Black Ej-es. 
He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a 
bay mare, I wish my Pax^a would let me have a Pony, and I am 

"Your dutiful Son, 

" George Sedley Osborne. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 263 

"P. S.— Give my love to little Emmv. I am cutting her out a Coach in 
cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake.'' 

In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose prodi- 
giously in the estimation of all his schoolfellows, and the name 
of Figs, which had been a byword of reproach, became as respect- 
able and popular a nickname as any other in use in the school. 
"After all, it's not his fault that his father's a grocer," George 
Osborne said, who, though a little chap, had a very high popu- 
larity among the Swishtail youth ; and his opinion was received 
with great applause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbin about 
this accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be a name of kind- 
ness and endearment ; and the sneak of an usher jeered at him no 

longer. 

And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. He 

made wonderful advances in scholastic learning. The superb 
Cuff himself, at whose condescension Dobbin could only blush 
and wonder, helped him on with his Latin verses; "coached" 
him in play hours, carried him triumphantly out of the little- 
boy class into the middle-sized form; and even there got a fair 
place for him. It was discovered, that although dull at class- 
ical learning, at mathematics he was uncommonly quick. To 
the contentment of all he passed third in algebra, and got a 
French prize-book, at the public midsummer examination. 
You should have seen his mother's face, when "Telemaque" 
(that delicious romance) was presented to him by the Doctor in 
the face of the whole school and the parents and company, with 
an inscription to Gulielmo Dobbin. All the boj's clapped 
hands in token of applause and sympath3\ His blushes, his 
stumbles, his awkwardness, and the number of feet which he 
crushed as he went back to his place, who shall describe or cal- 
culate? Old Dobbin, his father, who now respected him for the 
first time, gave him two guineas publicly; most of which he 
spent in a general tuck out for the school; and he came back in 
a tail-coat after the holidays. 

Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that 
this happy change in all his circumstances arose from his own 



264 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

generous and manly disposition; he chose, from some perverse- 
ness, to attribute his good fortune to the sole agency and bencA^- 
olence of little George Osborne, to whom henceforth he vowed 
such a love and affection as is only felt by children — such an 
affection as we read in the charming fairy book uncouth Orson 
had for splendid young Valentine his conqueror. He flung him- 
self down at little Osborne's feet, and loved him. 

Even before they were acquainted, he had admired Osborne in 
secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He 
believed Osborne to be the possessor of every perfection, to be 
the handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the 
most generous of created boys. He shared his money with him ; 
bought him uncountable presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold 
seals, toffee. Little Warblers, and romantic books, with large col- 
ored pictures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter 
you might read inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esq., 
from his attached friend, William Dobbin — the which tokens of 
homage George received very graciously, as became his superior 
merit. 

So that when Lieutenant Osborne, coming to Russell Square 
on the day of the Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, "Mrs. Sed- 
ley, ma'am, I hope you have room ; I've asked Dobbin of ours to 
come and dine here and go with us to Vauxhall. He's almost as 
modest as Jos." 

<' Modesty! pooh! " said the stout gentleman, casting a vain- 
queur look at Miss Sharp. 

"He is — but you are incomparably more graceful, Sedley," 
Osborne added, laughing. " I met him at the Bedford, when I 
went to look for you ; and I told him that Miss Amelia was come 
home, and that we were all bent on going out for a night's 
pleasuring; and that Mrs. Sedley had forgiven his breaking the 
punch-bowl at the child's party. Don't you remember that 
catastrophe, ma'am, seven years ago? " 

^' Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown," said good-natured 
Mrs. Sedley. "What a gawky it was! And his sisters are not 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 265 

much more graceful. Lady Dobbin was at Highbury last night 
with three of them. Such figures! my dears." 

"The alderman's very rich, isn't he?" Osborne said archly. 
*' Don't you think one of the daughters would be a good spec for 
me, ma'am?" 

" You foolish creature! Who would take you, I should like to 
know, with your yellow face? " 

"Mine a yellow face ? Stop till you see Dobbin. Why, he had 
the yellow fever three times; twice at Nassau, and once at St. 
Kitt's." 

"Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn't it, 
Emmy?" Mrs. Sedley said : at which speech Miss Amelia only 
made a smile and a blush ; and looking at Mr. George Osborne's 
pale, interesting countenance, and those beautiful black, curling, 
shining whiskers, which the young gentleman himself regarded 
with no ordinary complacency, she thought in her little heart, 
that in his Majesty's army, or in the wide world, there never was 
such a face or such a hero. "I don't care about Captain Dobbin's 
complexion," shesaid, " orabout his awkwardness, /shallalways 
like him, I know; " her little reason being that he was the friend 
and champion of George. 

" There's not a finer fellow in the service," Osborne said, " nor 
a better officer, though he is not an Adonis, certainly." And he 
looked toward the glass himself with much naivete; and in so 
doing, caught Miss Sharp's eye fixed keenly upon him, at which 
he blushed a little, and Rebecca thought in her heart, ''Ab, mon 
beRu monsieur! I think I have joyr gauge'' — the little artful 
minx! 

That evening, when Amelia came tripping into the drawing- 
room in a white muslin frock, prepared for conquest at Yauxhall, 
singing like a lark and as fresh as a rose, a very tall, ungainly 
gentleman, with large hands and feet, and large ears, set off by a 
closely cropped head of black hair, and in the hideous mihtary 
frogged coat and cocked hat of those times, advanced to meet 
her, and made her one of the clumsiest bows that was ever per- 
formed by a mortal. 



266 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, of his 

Majesty's Regiment of Foot, returned from yellow fever, 

in the West Indies, to which the fortune of the service had 
ordered his regiment, while so many of his gallant comrades 
were reaping glory in the Peninsula. 

He had arrived with a knock so very timid and quiet that 
it was inaudible to the ladies up-stairs; otherwise, you may be 
sure. Miss Amelia Would never have been so bold as to come 
singing into the room. As it was, the sweet, fresh little voice 
went right into the captain's heart, and nestled there. When 
she held out her hand for him to shake, before he enveloped it 
in his own, he paused, and thought, "Well, is it possible— are 
you the little maid I remember in the pink frock, such a short 
time ago — the night I upset the punch-bowl, just after I was 
gazetted? Are you the little girl that George Osborne said 
should marry him? What a blooming young creature you 
seem, and what a prize the rogue has got!" All this he 
thought, before he took Amelia's hand into his own, and as 
he let his cocked hat fall. 

His history since he left school, until the very moment when 
we have the pleasure of meeting him again, although not fully 
narrated, has yet, I think, been indicated sufficiently for an in- 
genious reader by the conversation in the last page. Dobbin, 
the despised grocer, was Alderman Dobbin — Alderman Dobbin 
was Colonel of the City Light Horse, then burning with mili- 
tary ardor to resist the French Invasion. Colonel Dobbin's 
corps, in which old Mr. Osborne himself was but an indifferent 
corporal, had been reviewed by the Sovereign and the Duke of 
York; and the colonel and alderman had been knighted. His 
son had entered the army ; and young Osborne followed pres- 
ently in the same regiment. They had served in the West 
Indies and in Canada. Their regiment had just come home, 
and the attachment of Dobbin to George Osborne was as warm 
and generous now as it had been when the two were schoolboys. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 267 



Mr. Veal's School. 

(From "Yanity Fair.") 

Georgy Osborne was now fairly established in his grand- 
father's mansion in Russell Square, occupant of his father's 
room in the house, and heir apparent of all the splendors there. 
The good looks, gallant bearing, and gentleman-like appearance 
of the boy won the grandsire's heart for him. Mr. Osborne was 
as proud of him as ever he had been of the elder George. 

The child had many more luxuries and indulgences than 
had been awarded to his father. Osborne's commerce had pros- 
pered greatly of late years. His wealth and importance in the 
City had very much increased. He had been glad enough in 
former days to put the elder George to a good private school; 
and a commission in the army for his son had been a source of 
no small pride to him; for little George and his future prospects 
the old man looked much higher. He would make a gentleman 
of the little chap, was Mr. Osborne's constant saying regarding 
little Georgy. He saw him in his mind's eye, a collegian, a 
Parliament man — a baronet, perhaps. The old man thought 
he would die contented if he could see his grandson in a fair 
way to such honors. He would have none but a tip-top college 
man to educate him — none of your quacks and pretenders — 
no, no. A few years before, he used to be savage, and inveigh 
against all parsons, scholars, and the like — declaring that they 
were a pack of humbugs and quacks, that weren't fit to get their 
living but by grinding Latin and Greek, and a set of supercili- 
ous dogs, that pretended to look down upon British merchants 
and gentlemen who could buy up half a hundred of 'em. He 
would mourn now, in a very solemn manner, that his own edu- 
cation had been neglected, and repeatedly point out, in pompous 
orations to Georgy, the necessity and excellence of classical 
acquirements. 

Georgy, after breakfast, would sit in the arm-chair in the 



268 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

dining-room, and read the Morning Post, just like a grown-up 
man. "How he du dam and swear," the servants would cry, 
delighted at his precocity. Those who remembered the captain 
and his father declared Master George was his pa, every inch of 
him. He made the house lively by his activity, his imperious- 
ness, his scolding, and his good nature. 

George's education was confided to a neighboring scholar and 
pedagogue, who "prepared young noblemen and gentlemen for 
the universities, the senate, and the learned professions; whose 
system did not embrace the degrading corporal severities still 
practiced at the ancient places of education, and in whose family 
the piipils could find the elegancies of refined society and the con- 
fidence and affection of a home." It was in this way that the 
Reverend Lawrence Veal, of Hart Street, Bloomsbury, Bareacres, 
strove with Mrs. Veal, his wife, to entice pupils. 

By thus advertising and pushing sedulously, the domestic 
chaplain and his lady generally succeeded in having one or two 
scholars by them who paid a high figure and were thought to be 
in uncommonly comfortable quarters. There was a large West 
Indian, whom nobody came to see, with a mahogany complexion, 
a w^oolly head, and an exceedingly dandified appearance; there 
was another hulking boy of three-and-twenty, whose education 
had been neglected, and whom Mr. and Mrs. Veal were to intro- 
duce into the polite world; there were two sons of Colonel Ban- 
gles of the East India Company's Service; these four sat down 
to dinner at Mrs. Veal's genteel board, when Georgy was intro- 
duced to her establishment. 

Georgy was, like some dozen other pupils, only a day boy; he 
arrived in the morning under the guardianship of his friend, Mr. 
Rowson, and if it was fine, would ride away in the afternoon on 
his pony foUow^ed by the groom. The wealth of his grandfather 
was reported in the school to be prodigious. The Reverend Mr. 
Veal used to compliment Georgy upon it personally, warning him 
that he was destined for a high station; that it became him to 
prepare, by sedulity and docility in youth, for the lofty duties to 
which he would be called in mature age ; that obedience in the 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 269 

child was the best preparation for command in the man; and 
that he therefore begged George would not bring toffy into the 
school, and ruin the health of the Master Bangles, who had every- 
thing they wanted at the elegant and abundant table of Mrs. 
Veal. 

With respect to learning, '*the Curriculum," as Mr. Veal loved 
to call it, was of prodigious extent ; and the young gentlemen in 
Hart Street might learn a something of every known science. 
The Reverend Mr. Veal had an orrery, an electrifying machine, 
a turning lathe, a theater (in the wash-house), a chemical appa- 
ratus, and what he called a select library of all the works of the 
best authors of ancient and modern times and languages. He 
took the boys to the British Museum, and descanted upon the 
antiquities and the specimens of natural history there, so that 
audiences would gather round him as he spoke, and all Blooms- 
bury highly admired him as a prodigiously well-informed man. 
And whenever he spoke (which he did almost always), he took 
care to produce the very finest and longest words of which the 
vocabulary gave him the use, rightly judging that it was as 
cheap to employ a handsome, large, and sonorous epithet as to 
use a little stingy one ! 

Thus he w^ould say to George in school: ''I observed on my 
return home from taking the indulgence of an evening's scien- 
tific conversation with my excellent friend Dr. Bulders— a true 
archseologian— that the windows of your venerated grandfather's 
almost princely mansion in Russell Square were illuminated as 
if for the purposes of festivity. Am I right in my conjecture 
that Mr. Osborne entertained a society of chosen spirits round 
his sumptuous board last night? " 

Little Georgy, who had considerable humor, and used to mimic 
Mr. Veal to his face with great spirit and dexterity, would reply 
that Mr. V. was quite correct in his surmise. 

"Then those friends who had the honor of partaking of Mr. 
Osborne's hospitality, gentlemen, had no reason, 1 will lay any 
wager, to complain of their repast. I myself have been more 
than once so favored. (By the way. Master Osborne, you came 



270 THE TEACHER IN LITEEATURE. 

a little late this morning, and have been a defaulter in this 
respect more than once.) I myself, I say, gentlemen, humble 
as I am, have been found not unworthy to share Mr. Osbofne's 
elegant hospitality. And though I have feasted with the great 
and noble of the world —for I presume that I may call my excel- 
lent friend and patron, the Right Honorable George Earl of 
Bareacres, as one of the number — yet I assure you that the 
board of the British merchant was to the full as richly served, 
and his reception as gratifying and noble. Mr. Bluck, sir, we 
W'ill resume, if you please, that passage of Eutropius which was 
interrupted by the late arrival of Master Osborne." 

To this great man George's education was for some time 
intrusted. Ameha was bewildered by his phrases, but thought 
him a prodigy of learning. That poor widow" made friends of 
Mrs. Veal, for reasons of her own. She liked to be in the house, 
and see Georgy coming to school there. She liked to be asked 
to Mrs. Veal's conversazioni, which took place once a month (as 
you w^ere informed on pink cards, with AOHNH engraved on 
them), and where the professor welcomed his pupils and their 
friends to weak tea and scientific conversation. Poor little 
Amelia never missed one of these entertainments, and thought 
them delicious so long" as she might have Georgy sitting by her. 
And she w^ould walk from Brompton in any weather, and em- 
brace Mrs. Veal with tearful gratitude for the delightful even- 
ing she had passed, when, the company having retired and 
Georgy gone off with Mr. Rowson, his attendant, poor Mrs. 
Osborne put on her cloaks and her shawls preparatory to walk- 
ing home. 

As for the learning w^hich Georgy imbibed under this valuable 
master of a hundred sciences, to judge from the weekly reports 
which the lad took home to his grandfather, his progress was 
remarkable. The names of a score or more desirable branches 
of knowledge were printed on a table, and the pupil's progress in 
each was marked by the professor. In Greek Georgy was pro- 
nounced aristos, in Latin optimus, in French tres bien, and so 
forth; and everybody had prizes for everything at the end of 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 271 

the year. Even Mr. Swartz, the woolly-headed young gentle- 
man, and half-brother to the Honorable Mrs. MacMull, and Mr. 
Bluck, the neglected young pupil of three-and-twenty from the 
agricultural districts, and that idle young scapegrace of a Master 
Todd before mentioned, received little eighteen-penny books, 
with ''Athene" engraved in them, and a pompous Latin inscrip- 
tion from the professor to his young friends. 

The family of this Master Todd were hangers-on of the house 
of Osborne. The old gentleman had advanced Todd from being 
a clerk to be a junior partner in his establishment. 

Mr. Osborne was the godfather of young Master Todd (who in 
subsequent life wrote Mr. Osborne Todd on his cards, and became 
a man of decided fashion), while Miss Osborne had accompanied 
Miss Maria Todd to the font, and gave her protege a prayer- 
book, a collection of tracts, a, volume of very low-church poetry, 
or some such memento of her goodness every year. Miss 0. 
drove the Todds out in her carriage now and then; when they 
were ill, her footman, in large plush smalls and waistcoat, 
brought jellies and delicacies from Russell Square to Coram 
Street. Coram Street trembled and looked up to Russell Square 
indeed; and Mrs. Todd, who had a pretty hand at cutting paper 
trimmings for haunches of mutton, and could make flowers, 
ducks, etc., out of turnips and carrots in a very creditable man- 
ner, would go to "the Square," as it was called, and assist in the 
preparations incident to a great dinner, without even so much 
as thinking of sitting down to the banquet. If any guest failed 
at the eleventh hour, Todd was asked to dine. Mrs. Todd and 
Maria came across in the evening, slipped in with a muffled 
knock, and were in the drawing-room by the time Miss Osborne 
and the ladies under her convoy reached that apartment; and 
ready to fire off duets and sing until the gentlemen came up. 
Poor Maria Todd; poor young lady! How she had to work 
and thrum at these duets and sonatas in the street, before they 
appeared in public in the square ! 

Thus it seemed to be decreed by fate, that Georgy was to 
domineer over everybody with whom he came in contact, and 



272 TEE TEACHER IN LITEEATURE. 

that friends, relatives, and domestics were all to bow the knee 
before the little fellow. It must be owned that he accommo- 
dated himself very willingly to this arrangement. Most people 
do so. And Georgy liked to play the part of master, and per- 
haps had a natural aptitude for it. ...... 

One day as the young gentlemen were assembled in the study 
at the Reverend Mr. Veal's, and the domestic chaplain to the 
Right Honorable the Earl of Bareacres was spouting away as 
usual — a carriage drove to the door decorated with the 
statue of Athene, and two gentlemen stepped out. The young 
Masters Bangles rushed to the window, with a vague notion 
that their father might have arrived from Bombay. The great 
hulking scholar of three-and -twenty, who was crying secretly 
over a passage of Eutropius, flattened his neglected nose against 
the panes, and looked at the drag, as the laquais de place sprang 
from the box and let out the persons in the carriage. 

" It's a fat one and a thin one, " Mr. Bluck said, as a thunder- 
ing knock came to the door. 

Everybody was interested, from the domestic chaplain him- 
self, who hoped he saw the fathers of some future pupils, down 
to Master Georgy, glad of any pretext for laying his book down. 

The boy in the shabbj^ livery, with the faded copper buttons, 
who always thrusts himself into the tight coat to open the door, 
came into the study and said, " Two gentlemen want to see 
Master Osborne. " The professor had had a trifling altercation 
in the morning with that young gentleman, owing to a differ- 
ence about the introduction of crackers in school-time; but his 
face resumed its habitual expression of bland courtesy, as he 
said, " Master Osborne, I give you full permission to go and see 
your carriage friends — to whom I beg you to convey the re- 
spectful compliments of myself and Mrs. Veal." 

Georgy went into the reception room, and saw two strangers, 
whom he looked at with his head up in his usual haughty man- 
ner. One was fat, with mustachios, and the other was lean and 
long, in a blue frock-coat, with a brown face, and a grizzled 
head. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 273 

"My God, how like he is!" said the long gentleman, with a 
start. " Can you guess who we are, George? " 

The boy's face flushed up, as it did usually when he was moved, 
and his eyes brightened. "I don't know the other," he said, 
" but I should think you must be Major Dobbin. " 

Indeed it was our old friend. His voice trembled with pleasure 
as he greeted the boy, and, taking both the other's hands in his 
own drew the lad to him, and said : 

" Your mother has talked to you about me — has she? " 

"That she has," Georgy answered, "hundreds and hundreds 
of times." 

The first thing Mrs. Osborne showed the major was George's 
miniature, for which she ran up-stairs on her arrival at home. It 
was not half handsome enough, of course, for the boy, but 
wasn't it noble of him to think of bringing it to his mother? 
Whilst her papa was awake she did not talk much about Georgy. 
To hear about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square was not agree- 
able to the old man, who very likely was unconscious that he had 
been living for some months past mainly on the bounty of his 
richer rival; and lost his temper if allusion was made to the 
other. 

At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, 
and then it was Amelia's opportunity to commence her conversa- 
tion, which she did with great eagerness ; it related exclusively to 
Georgy. She did not talk at all about her own sufferings at 
breaking from him, for indeed this worthy woman, though she 
was half killed by the separation from the child, yet thought it 
was very wicked in her to repine at losing him; but everything 
concerning him, his virtues, talents, and prospects, she poured 
out. She described his angelic beauty; narrated a hundred in- 
stances of his generosity and greatness of mind whilst living with 
her; how a royal duchess had stopped and admired him in Ken- 
sington Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, and how 
he had a groom and a pony ; what quickness and cleverness he 
had, and what a prodigiously well-read and delightful person the 
Reverend Lawrence Veal was, George's master. "He knows 

T. L.— 18 



274 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

everything,''^ Amelia said. ''He has the most delightful parties. 
You who are so learned yourself, and have read so much, and are 
so clever and accomplished — don't shake your head and say no — 
he always used to say you were— you will be charmed with Mr. 
Veal's parties— the last Tuesday in every month. He says there 
is no place in the bar or the senate that Georgy may not aspire 
to. Look here," and she went to the piano-drawer and drew out 
a theme of Georgy's composition. This great effort of genius, 
which is still in the possession of George's mother, is as follows: 

On seWshness. — Of all the vices which degrade the human character, 
Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self 
leads to the most monstrous crimes, and occasions the greatest misfor- 
tunes both in States and Famihes. As a selfish man will impoverish his 
family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king brings ruin on his 
people and often plunges them into war. 

Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, 
occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks — (Hom. II. A. 2). 

The selfishness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned innumer- 
able wars in Europe, and caused him to perish, himself, on a miserable 
island — that of Saint Helena in the Atlantic Ocean. 

We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own inter- 
est and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as 
well as our own. GEOKGE S. OSBORNE. 

Athene House, April 2d, 1823. 

"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek, too, 
at his age," the delighted mother said. "0 William," she 
added, holding out her hand to the major, "what a treasure 
Heaven has given me in that boy! He is the comfort of my life, 
and he is the image of — of him that's gone ! " 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 

1823. 

Thomas Hughes, M.P. , was born at Uffington, in Berkshire, England, 
in 1823. At seven years of age he was sent to school at Twyford, near 
Winchester, and three years later he was removed to Rugby, where, with 
his brother, he studied under the celebrated Dr. Arnold. From there he 
went to Oriel College, Oxford, where he took his B.A. degree in 1845. 
After graduating he commenced to study law, and was admitted to the 
bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1848. Previous to this he had turned his atten- 
tion to political problems, and had become an advanced Liberal. He was 
elected to Parliament in 1865, and continued a member of that body 
until 1874. In 1869 he received the appointment of Queen's Counsel, 
and the following year he made a tour of the United States. Besides fill- 
ing many other positions of trust, he found time to do a remarkable 
amount of literary work, but he is best known in this country by his 
"Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby." Among his other publications, 
and which illustrates his great versatility, are " Tom Brown at Oxford," 
"The Life of Alfred the Great," "The Manliness of Christ," and "The 
Cause of Freedom." 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

" Tom Brown " is the exact picture of the bright side of a schoolboy's 
experiences, told with a life, a spirit, and a fond minuteness of detail and 
recollection which are infinitely honorable to the author. Many have 
received equally strong impressions from their passage through a public 
school, but few would, we think, be able to paint them with so much vigor 
and fidelity. It requires so much courage, so much honesty, so much 
purity, to traverse that stage of life without doing and suffering many 
things which make the recollection of it painful, that a man who can 
honestly describe his school experience in the tone which the author of 
"Tom Brown" maintains throughout this volume without an effort, has 
a very high claim, indeed, to the respect and gratitude of his readers. It 
would be hard to imagine a more cheerful or a more useful lesson to a 
public-school boy. Every corner of the ])layhouse, every rule of football, 
every quaint school usage, almost every room in the schoolhouse, is 
sketched so boldly, yet so accurately, that Rugboeans will no doubt be 
able to realize to themselves every sentence of the book. Even the gen- 
tiles of Eton, Harrow, or Winchester, bigoted as they are sure to be in 

^ (275) 



276 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE, 

favor of their own institutions, cannot fail to see that Tom Brown was 
a very fine fellow, and that, although he had the misfortune to be at 
Rugby, they can hardly do better than to follow his examples in several 
particulars. "Edinburgh Review." 

From " Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby." 

The chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to eleven, and Tom 
got in early and took his place in the lowest row, and watched all 
the other boys come in and take their places, filling row after 
row ; he tried to construe the Greek text which was inscribed over 
the door with the slightest possible success, and wondered which 
of the masters, who walked down the chapel and took their seats 
in the exalted boxes at the end, would be his lord. And then 
came the closing of- the doors, and the Doctor* in his robes, and 
the service, which, however, didn't impress him much, for his feel- 
ing of wonder and curiosity was too strong. And the boy on 
one side of him was scratching his name on the oak paneling in 
front, and he couldn't help watching to see what the name was, 
and whether it was well scratched; and the boy on the other 
side went to sleep and kept falling against him ; and on the 
whole, though many boys even in that part of the school, were 
serious and attentive, the general atmosphere was by no means 
devotional; and when he got into the close again, he didn't feel 
at all comfortable, or as if he had been to church. 

But at afternoon chapel it was quite another thing. He had 
spent the time after dinner writing home to his mother, and so 
was in a better frame of mind; and his first curiosity was over, 
and he could attend more to the service. As the hymn after the 
prayers was being sung, and the chapel w^as getting a little dark, 
he was beginning to feel that he had been really w^orshiping. And 
then came the great event in his life, as in every Rugby boy's life 
of that day — the first sermon from the Doctor. 

More worthy pens than mine have described that scene. The 
oak pulpit standing out by itself above the school seats. The 
tall, gallant form, the kindling eye, the voice, now soft as the low 



* Dr. Thomas Arnold. 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 277 

notes of a flute, now clear and stirring as the call of the light 
infantry bugle, of him who stood there Sunday after Sunday, 
witnessing and pleading for his Lord, the King of righteousness 
and love and glory, with whose spirit he was filled, and in whose 
power he spoke. The long lines of young faces rising tier above 
tier down the whole length of the chapel, from the little boy's 
who had just left his mother to the young man's who was going 
out next week into the great world rejoicing in his strength. It 
was a. great and solemn sight, and never more so than at this 
time of year, when the only lights in the chapel were in the 
pulpit and at the seats of the praepostors of the week, and the 
soft twilight stole over the rest of the chapel, deepening into 
darkness in the high gallery behind the organ. 

But what was it, after all, which seized and held these three 
hundred- boys, dragging them out of themselves, willing or un- 
willing, for twenty minutes, on Sunday afternoons? True, there 
always were boys scattered up and down the school who in heart 
and head were worthy to hear and able to carry away the deep- 
est and wisest words there spoken. But these were a minority 
always, generally a very small one, often so small a one as to be 
countable on the fingers of your hand. What was it that moved 
and held us, the rest of the three hundred reckless, childish boys, 
who feared the Doctor with all our hearts, and very little besides 
in heaven or earth : who thought more of our sets in the school 
than of the Church of Christ, and put the traditions of Rugby 
and the public opinion of boys in our daily life above the laws of 
God? We couldn't enter into half that we heard; we hadn't the 
knowledge of our own hearts or the knowledge of one another, 
and little enough of the faith, hope, and love needed to that end. 
But we listened, as all boys in their better moods will listen (aye, 
and men too, for the matter of that), to a man whom we felt to 
be, with all his heart and soul, and strength, striving against 
whatever was mean, and unmanly, and unrighteous in our little 
world. It was not the cold clear voice of one giving advice and 
warning from serene heights to those who were struggling and 
sinning below, but the warm living voice of one who was fighting 



278 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE, 

for us and by our sides, and calling on us to help him and our- 
selves andr one another. And so, wearily and little by little, but 
surely and steadily, on the whole, was brought home to the 
young boy, for the first time, the meaning of his life,— that it was 
no fooPs or sluggard's paradise into which he had wandered by 
chance, but a battle-field ordained from of old, where there are no 
spectators, but the youngest must take his side, and the stakes 
are life and death. 

And he who roused this consciousness in them showed them at 
the same time, by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his 
whole daily life, how that battle was to be fought, and stood 
there before them their fellow-soldier and the captain of their 
band. The true sort of captain, too, for a boy's army, one who 
had no misgivings and gave no uncertain word of command, 
and, let who would yield or make truce, would fight the fight out 
(so every boy felt) to the last gasp and the last drop of blood. 
Other sides of his character might take hold of and influence 
boys here and there, but it was this thoroughness and undaunted 
courage which, more than anything else, won his way to the 
hearts of the great mass of those on whom he left his mark, and 
made them believe first in him, and then in his Master. 

It was this quality above all others which moved such boys as 
our hero, who had nothing whatever remarkable about him ex- 
cept excess of boyishness, by which I mean animal life in its 
fullest measure, good nature and honest impulses, hatred of 
injustice and meanness, and thoughtlessness enough to sink a 
three-decker. And so, during the next two years, in which it was 
more than doubtful whether he would get good or evil from the 
school, and before any steady purpose or principle grew up in 
him, whatever his week's sins and shortcomings might have 
been, he hardly ever left the chapel on Sunday evenings without 
a serious resolve to stand by and follow the Doctor, and a feel- 
ing that it was only cowardice (the incarnation of all other sins 
in such a boy's mind) which hindered him from doing so with 
all his heart. 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 279 

The lower-fourth forin, in which Tom found himself at the 
beginning of the next half-j^ear, was the largest form in the lower 
school, and numbered upwards of forty boys. Young gentlemen 
of all ages, from nine to fifteen, were to be found there, who 
expended such part of their energies as was devoted to Latin and 
Greek upon a book of Livy, the Bucolics of Virgil, and the Hecuba 
of Euripides, which were ground out in small daily portions. The 
driving of this unlucky fourth must have been grievous work to 
the unfortunate master, for it was the most unhappily constituted 
of any in the school. Here stuck the great stupid boys, who for 
the life of them could never master the accidence; the objects 
alternately of mirth and terror to the youngsters, who were daily 
taking them up, and laughing at them in lesson, and getting 
kicked by them for so doing in play-hours. There were no less 
than three unhappy fellows in tail-coats, with incipient down on 
their chins, whom the Doctor and the master of the form were 
always endeavoring to hoist into the upper school, but whose 
parsing and construing resisted the most well-meant shoves. 
Then came the mass of the form, boys of eleven and twelve, the 
most mischievous and reckless age of British youth, of whom 
East and Tom Brown were fair specimens. As full of tricks as 
monkeys, and of excuses as Irish women, making fun of their 
master, one another, and their lessons, Argus himself would have 
been puzzled to keep an e,ye on them ; and as for making them 
steady or serious for half an hour together, it was simply hope- 
less. The remainder of the form consisted of young prodigies of 
nine and ten, who were going up the school at the rate of a form 
a half-year, all boys' hands and wits being against them in their 
progress. It would have been one man's work to see that the 
precocious youngsters had fair play; and as the master had a 
good deal besides to do, they hadn't, and were forever being 
shoved down three or four places, their verses stolen, their books 
inked, their jackets whitened, and their lives otherwise made a 
burden to them. 

The lower fourth and all the forms below it were heard in 
the great school, and were not trusted to prepare their lessons 



280 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

before coming in, but were whipped into school three quarters 
of an hour before the lesson began by their respective masters ; 
and there, scattered about on the benches, with dictionary and 
grammar, hammered out their twenty lines of Virgil and 
Euripides in the midst of Babel. The masters of the lower 
school walked up and down the great school together during 
the three quarters of an hour, or sat in their desks reading or 
looking over copies, and keeping such order as was possible. 
But the lower fourth was just now an overgrown form, too large 
for any one man to attend to properly, and consequently the 
elysium or ideal form of the young scapegraces who formed the 
staple of it. 

Tom, as has been said, had come up from the third with a 
good character, but the temptations of the lower fourth soon 
proved too strong for him, and he rapidly fell away, and became 
as unmanageable as the rest. For some weeks, indeed, he suc- 
ceeded in maintaining the appearance of steadiness, and was 
looked upon favorably by his new master, whose eyes were first 
opened by the following little incident : 

Besides the desk which the master himself occupied, there was 
another large unoccupied desk in the corner of the great school, 
which was untenanted. To rush and seize upon this desk, 
which was ascended by three steps, and held four boys, was the 
great object of ambition of the lower fourthers; and the conten- 
tions for the occupation of it bred such disorder, that at last the 
master forbade its use altogether. This of course was a chal- 
lenge to the more adventurous spirits to occupy it, and as it 
was capacious enough for two boys to lie hid there completely, 
it was seldom that it remained empty, nothwithstanding the 
veto. Small holes were cut in the front, through which the 
occupants watched the masters as they walked up and down, 
and as lesson time approached, one boy at a time stole out and 
down the steps, as the masters' backs were turned, and mingled 
with the general crowd on the forms below. Tom and East 
had successfully occupied the desk some half-dozen times, and 
were grown so reckless that they were in the habit of playing 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 281 

small games with fives'-balls inside, when the masters were at 
the other end of the big school. One day as ill luck would have 
it, the game became more exciting than usual, and the ball 
slipped through East's fingers and rolled slowly down the steps, 
and out into the middle of the school, just as the masters turned 
in their walk and faced round upon the desk. The young delin- 
quents watched their master through the look-out holes march 
slowly down the school straight upon their retreat, while all the 
boys in the neighborhood of course stopped their work to look 
on; and not only were they ignominiously drawn out, and caned 
over the head then and there, but their characters for steadiness 
were gone from that time. However, as they only shared the 
fate of some three fourths of the rest of the form, this did not 
weigh heavily upon them. 

In fact the only occasions on which they cared about the 
matter were the monthly examinations, when the Doctor came 
round to examine their form, for one long awful hour, in the 
work which they had done in the preceding month. The 
second monthly examination came round soon after Tom's fall, 
and it was with anything but lively anticipations that he and 
the other lower-fourth boys came into prayers on the morning 
of the examination day. 

Prayers and calling-over seemed twice as short as usual, and 
before they could get construes of a tithe of the hard passages 
marked in the margin of their books, they were all seated 
round, and the Doctor was standing in the middle, talking in 
whispers to the master. Tom couldn't hear a word which 
passed, and never lifted his eyes from his book; but he knew 
by a sort of magnetic instinct that the Doctors's under lip was 
coming out, and his eye beginning to burn, and his gown get- 
ting gathered up more and more tightly in his left hand. The 
suspense was agonizing, and Tom knew that he was sure on 
such occasions to make an example of the schoolhouse boys. 
" If he would only begin," thought Tom, " I shouldn't mind." 

At Uist the whispering ceased, and the name which was called 
out was not Brown. He looked up for a moment, but the 



282 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Doctor's face was too awful; Tom wouldn't have met his eye 
for all he was worth, and buried himself in his book again. 

The boy who was called up first was a clever, merry school- 
house boy, one of their set; he was some connection of the 
Doctor's, and a great favorite, and ran in and out of his house 
as he liked, and so was selected for the first victim. 

" Triste lupus stabulis,^^ * began the luckless youngster, and 
stammered through some eight or ten lines. 

" There, that will do," said the Doctor. "Now construe." 

On common occasions the boy could have construed the 
passage well enough probably, but now his head was gone. 

" Triste lupus, — the sorrowful wolf," he began. 

A shudder ran through the whole form and the Doctor's wrath 
fairly boiled over; he made three steps up to the construer, and 
gave him a good box on the ear. The blow was not a hard one, 
but the boy was so taken by surprise that he started back ; the 
form caught the back of his knees, and over he went on the floor 
behind. There was a dead silence over the whole school ; never 
before and never again while Tom was at .school did the Doctor 
strike a boy in lesson. The provocation must have been great. 
However, the victim had saved his form for that occasion, for 
the Doctor turned to the top l)ench, and put on the best boys for 
the rest of the hour; and though at the end of the lesson he gave 
them all such a rating as they did not forget, this terrible field- 
day passed over without any severe visitations in the shape of 
punishments or floggings. Forty young scapegraces expressed 
their thanks to the "sorrowful wolf" in their different ways be- 
fore second lesson. 

But a character for steadiness once gone is not easih^ recov- 
ered, as Tom found, and for years afterwards he went up the 
school without it, and the masters' hands were against him, and 
his against them. And he regarded them, as a matter of course, 
as his natural enemies. 

Matters were not so comfortable, either, in the house as they 
had been, for old Brooke left at Christmas, and one or two others 

*The wolf is fatal to the flock. 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 283 

of the sixth-form boys at the following Easter. Their rule had 
been rough, but strong and just in the main, and a higher stand- 
ard was beginning to be set up ; in fact, there had been a short 
foretaste of the good time which followed some years later. Just 
now, however, all threatened to return into darkness and chaos 
again; for the new praepostors were either small young boys, 
whose cleverness had carried them up to the top of the school, 
while in strength of body and character they were not yet fit for a 
share in the government; or else big fellows of the wrong sort^ 
boys whose friendships and tastes had a downward tendency, 
who had not caught the meaning of their position and work, and 
felt none of its responsibilities. So under this no-government 
the schoolhouse began to see bad times. The big fifth-form boys, 
who were a sporting and drinking set, soon began to usurp 
power, and to fag the little boys as if they were praepostors, and 
to bully and oppress any who showed signs of resistance. The 
bigger sort of sixth-form boys just described soon made common 
cause with the fifth, while the smaller sort, hampered by their 
colleagues' desertion to the enemy, could not make head against 
them. So the fags were without their lawful masters and pro- 
tectors, and ridden over rough-shod bj^ a set of boys whom they 
were not bound to obey, and whose only right over them stood 
in their bodily powers; and, as old Brooke had prophesied, the 
house by degrees broke up into small sects and parties, and lost 
the strong feeling of fel]ow^ship which he set so much store by, 
and with it much of the prowess in games, and the lead in all 
school matters, which he had done so much to keep up. 

In no place in the world has individual character more weight 
than at a public school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you 
boys who are getting into the upper forms. Now is the time in 
all your lives, probably, when you may have more wide influ- 
ence for good or evil on the society you live in than you ever 
can have again. Quit yourselves like men, then; speak up, 
and strike out if necessary for whatsoever is true and manly 
and lovely and of good report; never try to be popular, but 
only to do your duty and help others to do theirs, and you may 



284 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you found 
it, and so be doing good, which no living soul can measure, to 
generations of our countrymen yet unborn. 

But now came on the May-fly season; the soft hazy summer 
weather lay sleepily along the rich meadows by Avon side, and 
the green and gray flies flickered with their graceful, lazy, up 
and down flight over the reeds and the water and the meadows, 
in myriads upon myi-iads. The May-flies must surely be the 
lotus-eaters of the ephemerae — the happiest, laziest, carelessest 
fly that dances and dreams out his few hours of sunsjiiny life 
by English rivers. 

Every little pitiful coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert 
for the flies, and gorging his wretched carcass with hundreds 
daily, the gluttonous rogues! and every lover of the gentle 
craft was out to avenge the poor May-flies. 

S.o one fine Thursday afternoon Tom, having borrowed East's 
new rod, started by himself to the river. He fished for some 
time with small success; not a fish would rise at him; but, as 
he prowled along the bank, he was presently aware of mighty 
ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of 
a huge willow tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty 
yards below was a shallow for which he made off hot-foot; and 
forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the Doctor, 
and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and 
in three minutes was creeping along on all-fours towards the 
clump of willows. 

It isn't often that great chub or any other coarse fish are in 
earnest about anything, but just then they were thoroughly 
bent on feeding, and in half an hour Master Tom had deposited 
three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant willow. As he 
was baiting for a fourth pounder, and just going to throw in 
again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one 
hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the un- 
der-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not 
carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree, so Tom laid his 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 285 

bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up 
his rod after him. He had just time to reach and crouch along 
upon a huge branch some ten feet up, which stretched out over 
the river, when the keeper arrived at the clump. Tom's heart 
beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and he 
would have passed, when, as ill luck would have it, the gleam 
on the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a 
dead point at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one 
by one; his eye and touch told him that they had been alive 
and feeding within the hour. Tom crouched lower along the 
branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump. ''If I could 
only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began gently shift- 
ing it to get it alongside him; "willow trees don't throw out 
straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse 
luck." Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of 
the rod, and then of Tom's hand and arm. 

'«0h, be up thur, be'ee?" says he running under the tree. 
"Now you come down this minute." 

"Treed at last," thinks Tom, making no answer, and keep- 
ing as close as possible, and working away at the rod, which he 
takes to pieces: "I'm in for it unless I can starve him out." 
And then he begins to meditate getting along the branch for a 
plunge and scramble to the other side; but the small branches 
are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keeper 
will have lots of time to get round by the ford before he can get 
out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper begin- 
ning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he 
scrambles himself back to where his branch joins the trunk, and 
stands with hfted rod. 

"Hullo, Velveteens! Mind your fingers if you come any 
higher." 

The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, 
"Oh! be you, be it, young measter? Well, here's luck. Now 
I tells 'ee to come down at once, and 't'll be best for 'ee." 

"Thank 'ee, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable," said Tom, 
shortening the rod in his hand, and preparing for battle. 



286 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE, 

<'Werry well, please yourself," says the keeper, descending 
however to the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank ; 
"I bean't in no hurry, so you med take your time. I'll larn 'ee 
to gee honest folk names afore I've done with 'ee." 

" My luck, as usual," thinks Tom; " what a fool I was to give 
him a black. If I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off. 
The return match is all his way." 

The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill and 
light it, keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately 
across the branch, looking at the keeper — a pitiful sight for men 
and fishes. The more he thought of it the less he liked it. "It 
must be getting near second calling-over," thinks he. Keeper 
smokes on stolidly. "If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe 
enough. I can't sit here all night. Wonder if he'll rise at 
silver." 

"I say, keeper," said he meekly, "let me go for two bob?" 

" Not for twenty neither," grunts his persecutor. 

And so they sat on till long past second calling-over, and 
telling of locking-up near at hand. 

"I'm coming down, keeper," said Tom at last, with a sigh, 
fairly tired out. "Now what are you going to do? " 

"Walk 'ee up to school, and give 'ee over to the Doctor; 
them's my orders," says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of 
his fourth pipe, and standing up and shaking himself. 

"Very good," said Tom; "but hands off, you know. I'll go 
with you quietly, so no collaring, or that sort of thing." 

Keeper looked at him a minute. "Werry good," said he at 
last; and so Tom descended, and wended his way drearily by the 
side of the keeper up to the schoolhouse, where they arrived just 
at locking up. As they passed the school gates, the Tadpole, 
and several others who were standing there, caught the state of 
things, and rushed out, crying, "Rescue!" but Tom shook his 
head, so they only followed to the Doctor's gate, and went back 
sorely puzzled. 

How changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time 
that Tom was up there, as the keeper told the story, not 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 287 

omitting to state how Tom had called him blackguard names. 
«' Indeed, sir," broke in the culprit, "it was only Velveteens,'' 
The Doctor only asked one question. 

'< You know the rule about the banks, Brown? " 

"Yes, sir." 

"Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson." 

" I thought so," muttered Tom. 

"And about the rod, sir?" went on the keeper; "Master's 
told we as we might have all the rods " 

" Oh, please, sir," broke in Tom, "the rod isn't mine." The 
Doctor looked puzzled, but the keeper, who was a good-hearted 
fellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim. 
Tom was flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met 
Velveteens, and presented him with half-a-crown for giving up 
the rod claim, and they became sworn friends; and I regret to 
say that Tom had many more fish from under the willow that 
May-fly season, and w^as never caught again by Velveteens. 

It wasn't three weeks before Tom, and now East by his side, 
were again in the awful presence. This time, however, the Doc- 
tor was not so terrible. A few days before they had been fagged 
at fives to fetch the balls that went off the court. While stand- 
ing watching the game, they saw five or six nearly new balls hit 
on the top of the school. "I say, Tom," said East, when they 
were dismissed, "couldn't we get those balls somehow? " 

" Let's try, anyhow." 

So they reconnoitered the walls carefully, borrowed a coal 
hammer from old Stumps, bought some big nails, and after one 
or two attempts, scaled the school, and possessed themselves of 
huge quantities of fives'-balls. The place pleased them so much 
that they spent all their spare time there, scratching and cutting 
their names on the top of every tower; and at last, having ex- 
hausted all other places, finished up with inscribing, H. East, T. 
Brown, on the minute-hand of the great clock, in the doing of 
which they held the minute-hand, and disturbed the clock's econ- 
omy. So next morning, when master and boys came trooping 
down to prayers, and entered the quadrangle, the injured minute- 



288 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

hand was indicating three minutes to the hour. They all pulled 
up, and took their time. When the hour struck, doors were 
closed, and half the school late. Thomas being set to make in- 
quiry, discovers their names on the minute-hand and reports 
accordingly; and they are sent for, a knot of their friends mak- 
ing derisive and pantomimic allusions to what their fate would 
be, as they walk off. 

But the Doctor, after hearing their story, doesn't make much 
of it, and only gives them thirty lines of Homer to learn by heart, 
and a lecture on the likelihood of such exploits ending in broken 
bones. 

Alas ! almost the next day was one of the great fairs in the 
town; and as several rows and other disagreeable accidents 
had of late taken place on these occasions, the Doctor gives out 
after prayers in the morning, that no boy is to go down into 
the town. Wherefore East and Tom, for no earthly pleasure 
except that of doing what they were told not to do, start away, 
after second lesson, and making a short circuit through the 
fields, strike a back lane which leads into the town, go down it, 
and run plump upon one of the masters as they emerge into 
the High Street. The master in question, though a very clever, 
is not a righteous man: he has already caught several of his 
own pupils, and gives them lines to learn, while he sends East 
and Tom, who are not his pupils, up to the Doctor, who, on 
learning that they had been at prayers in the morning, flogs 
them soundly. 

The flogging did them no good at the time, for the injustice 
of their captor was ranking in their minds; but it was just the 
end of the half, and on the next evening but one Thomas 
knocks at their door, and says the Doctor wants to see them. 
They look at one another in silent dismay. What can it be 
now? Which of their countless wrong-doings can he have 
heard of officially? However, it's no use delaying, so up they 
go to the study. There they find the Doctor, not angry, but very 
grave. "He has sent for them to speak very seriously before 
they go home. They have each been flogged several times in 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 289 

the half-3'ear for direct and willful breaches of rules. This 
cannot go on. They are doing no good to themselves or 
others, and now they are getting up in the school, and have 
influence. They seem to think that rules are made capri- 
ciously, and for the pleasure of the masters ; but this is not so — 
they are for the good of the whole school, and must and shall 
be obeyed. Those who thoughtlessly or willfully break them 
will not be allowed to stay at the school. He should be sorry 
if they had to leave, as the school might do them both much 
good, and wishes them to think very seriously in the holidays 
over what he has said. Good night." 

And so the two hurry off horribly scared : the idea of having 
to leave has never crossed their minds, and is quite unbearable. 

As they go out, they meet at the door old Holmes, a sturdy, 
cheery praepostor of another house, who goes in to the Doctor; 
and they hear his genial, hearty greeting of the new-comer, so 
different from their own reception, as the door closes, and return 
to their study with heavy hearts, and tremendous resolves to 
break no more rules. 

Five minutes afterwards the master of their form, a late 
arrival and a model young master, knocks at the Doctor's study 
door. ''Come in!" and as he enters, the Doctor goes on to 
Holmes — " you see I do not know anything of the case officially, 
and if I take any notice of it at all, I must publicly expel the 
boy. I don't wish to do that, for I think there is some good in 
him. There's nothing for it but a good sound thrashing." He 
paused to shake hands with the master, which Holmes does also, 
and then prepares to leave. 

"I understand. Good-night, sir." 

"Good-night, Holmes. And remember," added the Doctor, 
emphasizing the words, "a good sound thrashing before the 
whole house." 

The door closed on Holmes ; and the Doctor, in answer to the 
puzzled look of his lieutenant, explained shortly. "A gross case 
of bullying. Wharton, the head of the house, is a very good fel- 
low, but slight and w^eak, and severe physical pain is the only 

T, L.— 19 



290 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

way to deal with such a case ; so I have asked Holmes to take it 
up. He is very careful and trustworthy, and has plenty of 
strength. I wish all the sixth had as much. We must have it 
here, if we are to keep order at all." 

Now I don't want any wiseacres to read this book; but if 
they should, of course they will prick up their long ears, and 
howl, or rather bray, at the above story. Very good, I don't 
object; but what I have to add for you boys is this, that 
Holmes called a levy of his house after breakfast next morning, 
made them a speech on the case of bullying in question, and 
then gave the bully a "good sound thrashing; " and that years 
afterwards, that boy sought out Holmes, and thanked him, say- 
ing it had been the kindest act which had ever been done upon 
him, and the turning-point in his character; and a very good 
fellow he became, and a credit to his school. 

After some other talk between them, the doctor said, "I want 
t'o speak to you about two boys in your form, East and Brown : 
I have just been speaking to them. What do you think of 
them?" 

''Well, they are not hard workers, and very thoughtless and 
full of spirits; but I can't help liking them. I think they are 
sound, good fellows at the bottom." 

<'I'm glad of it. I think so too. But they make me very 
uneasy. They are taking the lead a good deal amongst the 
fags in my house, for they are very active, bold fellows. I 
should be very sorry to lose them, but I shan't let them stay if 
I don't see them gaining character and manliness. In another 
year they may do great harm to all the younger boys." 

"Oh, I hope you won't send them away," pleaded their 
master. 

"Not if I can help it. But now I never feel sure, after any half- 
holiday, that I shan't have to flog one of them next morning, for 
some foolish, thoughtless scrape. I quite dread seeing either of 
them." 

They were both silent for a minute. Presently the Doctor 
began again : 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 291 

" They don't feel that they have any duty or work to do in the 
school, and how is one to make them feel it? '' 

'« I think if either of them had some little boy to take care of, 
it would steady them. Brown is the more reckless of the two, I 
should say; East wouldn't get into so many scrapes without 
him." 

''Well," said the Doctor, with something like a sigh, " I'll think 
of it." And they went on to talk of other subjects. 

Another two years have passed, and it is again the end of the 
summer half-year at Rugby; in fact the school has broken up. 
The fifth-form examinations were over last week, and upon them 
have followed the speeches, and the sixth-form examinations for 
exhibitions ; and they too are over now. The boys have gone to 
all the winds of heaven, except the town boys and the eleven, and 
the few enthusiasts besides who have asked leave to stay in their 
houses to see the result of the cricket matches. For this year 
the Wellesburn return match and the Marylebone match are 
.played at Rugby, to the great delight of the town and neighbor- 
hood, and the sorrow of those aspiring young cricketers who 
have been reckoning for the last three months on showing off at 
Lords' ground. 

The Doctor started for the Lakes yesterday morning, after an 
interview with the captain of the eleven, in the presence of 
Thomas, at which he arranged in what school the cricket dinners 
were to be, and all other matters necessary for the satisfactory 
carrying out of the festivities; and warned them as to keeping 
all spirituous liquors out of the close, and having the gates 
closed by nine o'clock. 

There is much healthy, hearty, happy life scattered up and 
down the close; but the group to which I beg to call your espe- 
cial attention is there, on the slope of the island, which looks 
towards the cricket-ground. It consists of three figures; two 
are seated on a bench, and one on the ground at their feet. 
The first, a tall, slight, and rather gaunt man, with a bushy 



292 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

eyebrow, and a dry, humorous smile, is evidently a clergyman. 
He is carelessly dressed, and looks rather used up, which isn't 
much to be wondered at, seeing that he has just finished six 
weeks of examination work; but there he basks, and spreads 
himself out in the evening sun, bent on enjoying life, though he 
doesn't quite know what to do with his arms and legs. Surely 
it is our friend the young master, whom we have had glimpses of 
before, but his face has gained a great deal since we last came 
across him. 

And by his side, in white flannel shirt and trowsers, straw 
hat, the captain's belt, and the untanned yellow cricket shoes 
which all the eleven wear, sits a strapping figure, nearly six 
feet high, with ruddy tanned face and whiskers, curly brown 
hair, and a laughing, dancing eye. He is leaning forward with 
his elbows resting on his knees, and dandling his favorite bat, 
with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day, in his 
strong brown hands. It is Tom Brown, grown into a young 
man nineteen years old, a praepostor and captain of the eleven, 
spending his last day as a Rugby-boy, and let us hope as much 
wiser as he is bigger, since we last had the pleasure of coming 
across him. 

And at their feet on the warm dry ground, similarly dressed, 
sits Arthur, Turkish fashion, with his bat across his knees. He 
too is no longer a boy, less of a boy in fact than Tom, if one may 
judge from the thoughtf nines s of his face, which is somewhat 
paler, too, than one could wish ; but his figure, though slight, is 
well-knit and active, and all his old timidity has disappeared, 
and is replaced by silent quaint fun, with which his face twinkles 
all over, as he listens to the broken talk between the other two, 
in which he joins every now and then. 

All three are watching the game eagerly, and joining in the 
cheering which follows every good hit. It is pleasing to see the 
easy friendly footing which the pupils are on with their master, 
perfectly respectful, yet with no reserve and nothing forced in 
their intercourse. Tom has clearly abandoned the old theory of 
''natural enemies," in this case at any rate. 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 293 

But it is time to listen to what they are saying, and see what 
we can gather out of it. 

" Oh, Brown, mayn't I go in next? " shouts the Swiper. 

" Whose name is next on the list? " says the captain. 

"Winter's, and then Arthur's," answers the boy who carries 
it; "but there's only twenty-six runs to get, and no time to lose. 
I heard Mr. Aislabie say that the stumps must be drawn at a 
quarter past eight exactly." 

"Oh, do let the Swiper go in," chorus the boys; so Tom 
yielded against his better judgment. 

"I dare say now I've lost the match by this nonsense," he 
says, as he sits down again; "they'll be sure to get Jack's 
wicket in three or four minutes; however, you'll have the chance, 
sir, of seeing a hard hit or two," adds he, smiling, and turning 
to the master. 

"Come, none of your irony, Brown," answers the master. 
" I'm beginning to understand the game scientifically. What a 
noble game it is too ! " 

"Isn't it? But it's more than a game — it's an institution,'* 
said Tom* 

"Yes," said Arthur, "the birthright of British boys, old and 
young, as habeas corpus and trial by jury are of British men." 

" The discipline and reliance on one another which it teaches is 
so valuable, I think," went on the master, "it ought to be such 
an unselfish game. It merges the individual in the eleven; he 
doesn't play that he may win, but that his side may." 

"That's very true," said Tom, "and that's why football and 
cricket, now one comes to think of it, are so much better games 
than fives' or hare-and-hounds, or any other, where the object is 
to come in first or to win for one's self, and not that one's side 
may win." 

"And then the captain of the eleven!" said the master, 
<' what a post is his in our school world ! almost as hard as the 
Doctor's ; requiring skill and gentleness and firmness, and I know 
not what other rare qualities." 



294 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"Which don't he wish he may get?" said Tom, laughing; 
*'at any rate, he hasn't got them yet, or he wouldn't have 
been such a flat to-night as to let Jack Haggles go in out of his 
turn." 

"Ah! the Doctor never would have done that," said Arthur, 
demurely. "Tom, you've a great deal to learn yet in the art of 
ruling." 

" Well, I wish you'd tell the Doctor so, then, and get him to let 
me stop till I'm twenty. I don't want to leave, I'm sure." 

"What a sight it is," broke in the master, "the Doctor as a 
ruler. Perhaps ours is the only little corner of the British em- 
pire which is thoroughly, wisely, and strongly ruled just now. 
I'm more and more thankful every day of my life that I came 
here to be under him." 

"So am I, I'm sure," said Tom; "and more and more sorry 
that I've got to leave." 

' "Every place and thing one sees here reminds one of some 
wise act of his," went on the master. "This island now — you re- 
member the time. Brown, when it was laid out in small gardens, 
and cultivated by frost-bitten fags in February and March? " 

"Of course I do," said Tom; "didn't I hate spending two 
hours in the afternoons grubbing in the tough dirt with the 
stump of a fives'-bat? But turf-cart was good fun enough." 

"I dare say it was, but it was always leading to fights with 
the townspeople; and then the stealing flowers out of all the 
gardens in Rugby for the Easter show was abominable. " 

"Well, so it was," said Tom looking down, "but we fags 
couldn't help ourselves. But what has that to do with the 
Doctor's ruling ? " 

"A great deal, I think," said the master; "what brought 
island-fagging to an end ? " 

"Why, the Easter speeches were put off till midsummer," 
said Tom, "and the sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here." 

"Well, and who changed the time of the speeches, and put 
the idea of gymnastic poles into the heads of their worships the 
sixth form? " said the master. 



THOMAS HUGHES, MJ*. 295 

"The Doctor, I suppose," said Tom. "I never thought of 
that." 

"Of course you didn't," said the master, " or else, fag as you 
were, you would have shouted with the whole school against put- 
ting down old customs. And that's the way that all the Doctor's 
reforms have been carried out when he has been left to him- 
self — quietly and naturally, putting a good thing in the place 
of a bad, and letting the bad die out; no wavering and no 
hurry — the best thing that could be done for the time being, 
and patience for the rest." 

"Just Tom's own way," chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom 
with his elbow, " driving a nail where it will go, " to which allu- 
sion Tom answered by a sly kick. 

"Exactly so," said the master, innocent of the allusion and 
by-play. 

As Tom and the rest of the eleven were turning back into 
the close, and everybody was beginning to cry out for another 
country-dance, encouraged by the success of the night before, 
the young master, who was just leaving the close, stopped him, 
and asked him to come up to tea at half-past eight, adding, "I 
won't keep you more than half an hour, and ask Arthur to 
come up too." 

"I'll come up with you directly, if you'll let me," said Tom, 
"for I feel rather melancholy, and not quite up to the country- 
dance and supper with the rest." 

"Do by all means," said the master; "I'll wait here for 
you.'* 

So Tom went off to get his boots and things from the tent, to 
tell Arthur of the invitation, and to speak to his second in com- 
mand about stopping the dancing and shutting up the close as 
soon as it grew dusk. Arthur promised to follow as soon as he 
had a dance. So Tom handed his things over to the man in 
charge of the tent, and walked quietly away to the gate where 
the master was waiting, and the two took their way together up 
the Hillmorton road. 



296 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Of course they found the master's house locked up, and all the 
servants away in the close, about this time, no doubt footing it 
away on the grass with extreme delight to themselves, and in 
utter oblivion of the unfortunate bachelor their master, whose 
one enjoyment in the shape of meals was his "dish of tea" (as 
our grandmothers called it) in the evening; and the phrase was 
apt in his case, for he always poured his out into the saucer be- 
fore drinking. Great was the good man's horror at finding him- 
self shut out of his own house. Had he been alone he would have 
treated it as a matter of course, and would have strolled con- 
tentedly up and down his gravel-walk until some one came home; 
but he was hurt at the stain on his character of host, especially 
as the guest was a pupil. However, the guest seemed to think ic 
a great joke, and presently, as they poked about round the 
house, mounted a wall, from which he could reach a passage 
window; the window, as it turned out, was not bolted, so in 
another minute Tom was in the house and down at the front 
door, which he opened from inside. The master chuckled 
grimly at this burglarious entry, and insisted on leaving the 
hall-door and two of the front window^s open to frighten the 
truants on their return ; and then the two set about foraging for 
tea, in which operation the master was much at fault, not having 
the faintest possible idea where to find anything, and being, 
moreover, wondrously short-sighted; but Tom by a sort of in- 
stinct knew the right cupboards in the kitchen and pantry, and 
soon managed to place on the snuggery table better materials 
for a meal than had appeared there probably during the reign of 
his tutor, who was then and there initiated, amongst other 
things, into the excellence of that mysterious condiment, a drip- 
ping-cake. The cake was newly baked, and all rich and fiaky; 
Tom had found it reposing in the cook's private cupboard, 
awaiting her return; and as a warning to her they finished it to 
the last crumb. The kettle sang away merrily on the hob of the 
snuggery, for, notwithstanding the time of year, they lighted a 
fire, throwing both the windows wide open at the same time; the 
heap of books and papers were pushed away to the other end of 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 297 

the table, and the great solitary engraving of King's College 
Chapel over the mantelpiece looked less stiff than usual, as they 
settled themselves down in the twilight to the serious drinking of 
tea. 

After some talk on the match, and other different subjects, the 
conversation came naturally back to Tom's approaching de- 
parture, over which he began again to make his moan. 

"Well, we shall all miss you quite as much as you will miss 
us," said the master. "You are the Nestor of the school now, 
are you not?" 

"Yes, ever since East left," answered Tom. 

" By the bye, have you heard from him? " 

"Yes, I had a letter in February just before he started for 
India to join his regiment." 

" He will make a capital officer." 

"Ay, won't he!" said Tom brightening; "no fellow could 
handle boys better, and I suppose soldiers are very like boys. 
And he'll never tell them to go where he won't go himself. No 
mistake about that— a braver fellow never walked." 

" His year in the sixth will have taught him a good deal that 
will be useful to him now." 

"So it will," said Tom, staring into the fire. "Poor, dear 
Harry," he went on, "how well I remember the day we were put 
out of the twenty. How he rose to the situation, and burned 
his cigar-cases, and gave away his pistols, and pondered on the 
constitutional authority of the sixth, and his new duties to the 
Doctor, and the fifth form and the fags. Ay, and no fellow ever 
acted up to them better, though he was always a people's man — 
for the fags, and against constituted authorities. He couldn't 
help that, you know. I'm sure the Doctor must have liked 
him?" said Tom, looking up inquiringly. 

"The Doctor sees the good in every one, and appreciates it," 
said the master, dogmatically, " but I hope East will get a good 
colonel. He won't do if he can't respect those above him. How 
long it took him even here to learn the lesson of obeying." 

" Well, I wish I were alongside of him," said Tom. " If I can't 



298 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

be at Rugby, I want to be at work in the world, and not 
dawdling away three years at Oxford." 

"What do you mean by 'at work in the world?'" said the 
master, pausing with his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and 
peering at Tom over it. 

"Well, I mean real work — one's profession; whatever one will 
have really to do, and make one's living by. I want to be doing 
some real good, feeling that I am not only at play in the world," 
answered Tom, rather puzzled to find out himself what he really 
did mean. 

"You are mixing up two very different things in your head, I 
think. Brown," said the master, putting down the empty saucer, 
" and you ought to get clear about them. You talk of ' working 
to get your living' and 'doing some real good in the world' in 
the same breath. Now, you may be getting a very good living 
in a profession and yet doing no good at all in the world, but 
qviite the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter before you 
as your one object, and you will be right, whether you make a 
living or not; but if you dwell on the other, you'll very likely 
drop into mere money -making, and let the world take care of 
itself for good or evil. Don't be in a hurry about finding your 
work in the world for yourself; you are not old enough to judge 
for yourself yet, but just look about you in the place you find 
yourself in, and try to make things a little better and hon- 
ester there. You'll find plenty to keep your hand in at Oxford, 
or wherever else you go. And don't be led away to think this 
part of the world important and that unimportant. Every 
corner of the world is important. No man knows whether this 
part or that is most so, but every man may do some honest 
work in his own corner." And then the good man went on to 
talk wisely to Tom of the sort of work which he might take up 
as an undergraduate, warned him of the prevalent university 
sins, and explained to him the many and great differences be- 
tween university a,nd school life, till the twilight changed into 
darkness, and they heard the truant servant stealing in by the 
back entrance. 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 299 

"I wonder where Arthur can be,'- said Tom at last looking^ 
at his watch ; " why, it's nearly half-past nine already." 

" Oh, he is comfortably at supper with the eleven, forgetful of 
his oldest friends," said the master. "Nothing has given me 
greater pleasure," he went on, " than your friendship for him; it 
has been the making of you both." 

"Of me, at any rate," answered Tom; "I should never have 
been here now but for him. It was the luckiest chance in the 
world that sent him to Rugby, and made him my chum." 

"Why do you talk of lucky chances?" said the master; "I 
don't know that there are any such things in the world; at any 
rate there was neither luck nor chance in that matter." 

Tom looked at him inquiringly, and he went on. "Do you 
remember when the Doctor lectured you and East at the end of 
one half-year, when you were in the shell, and had been getting 
into all sorts of scrapes?" 

"Yes, well enough," said Tom; "it was the half-year before 
Arthur came." 

"Exactly so," answered the master. "Now, I was with him a 
few minutes afterwards, and he was in great distress about you 
two. And after some talk, we both agreed that you in particu- 
lar wanted some object in the school beyond games and mischief; 
for it was quite clear that you never would make the regular 
school work your first object. And so the Doctor, at the begin- 
ning of the next half-year, looked out for the best of the new 
boys, and separated you and East, and put the young boy into 
your study, in the hope that when you had somebody to lean on 
you, you would begin to stand a little steadier yourself, and get 
manliness and thoughtfulness, and I can assure you he has 
watched the experiment ever since with great satisfaction. Ah ! 
not one of you boys will ever know the anxiety you have given 
him, or the care with which he has watched over every step in 
your school lives." 

Up to this time, Tom had never wholly given in to or under- 
stood the Doctor. At first he had thoroughly feared him. For 
some years, as I have tried to show, he had learned to regard 



300 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

him with love and respect, and to think him a very great and 
wise and good man. But, as regarded his own position in the 
school, of which he was no lifctle proud, Tom had no idea of 
giving any one credit for it but himself, and, truth to tell, was 
a very self-conceited young gentleman on the subject. He was 
wont to boast that he had fought his own way fairly up the 
school, and had never made up to or been taken up by any big 
fellow or master, and that it was now quite a different place 
from what it was when he first came. And, indeed, though he 
didn't actually boast of it, in his secret soul he did to a great 
extent believe that the great reform of the school had been 
owing quite as much to himself as to any one else. Arthur, he 
acknowledged, had done him good, and taught him a good 
deal, so had other boys in different ways, but they had not had 
the same means of influence on the school in general; and as 
for the Doctor, why, he was a splendid master, but everyone 
knew that masters could do very little out of school hours. In 
short, he felt on terms of equality with his chief, so far as the 
social state of the school was concerned, and thought that the 
Doctor would find it no easy matter to get on without him. 
Moreover, his school toryism was still strong, and he looked 
still with some jealousy on the Doctor, as somewhat of a fanatic 
in the matter of change, and thought it very desirable for the 
school that he should have some wise person (such as himself) 
to look sharply after vested school-rights, and see that nothing 
was done to the injury of the republic without due protest. 

It was a new light to him to find that, besides teaching the 
sixth, and governing and guiding the whole school, editing 
classics, and writing histories, the great head-master had found 
time in those busy years to watch over the career even of him, 
Tom Brown, and his particular friends,— and, no doubt, of fifty 
other boys at the same time; and all this without taking the 
least credit to himself, or of seeming to know, or let any one 
else know, that he ever thought particularly of any boy at all. 

However, the Doctor's victory was complete from that mo- 
ment over Tom Brown at any rate. He gave way at all points, 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 301 

and the enemy marched right over him, cavalry, infantry and 
artillery, the land transport corps and the camp followers. It 
had taken eight long years to do it, but now it was done thor- 
oughly, and there wasn't a corner of him left which didn't believe 
in the Doctor. Had he returned to school again, and the Doctor 
begun the half-year by abolishing, fagging and football and the 
Saturday half-holidaj^ or all or any of the most cherished school 
institutions, Tom would have supported him with the blindest 
faith. And so, after a half confession of his previous shortcom- 
ings, and sorrowful adieus to his tutor, from whom he received 
two beautifully-bound volumes of the Doctor's sermons, as a part- 
ing present, he marched down to the schoolhouse, a hero-worshiper 
who would have satisfied the soul of Thomas Carlyle himself. 

In the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the 
well-known station, and leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a 
porter, walked slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was 
now July. He had rushed away from Oxford the moment that 
term was over, for a fishing ramble in Scotland with two college 
friends, and had been for three weeks living on oat-cake, mutton- 
hams and whisky, in the wildest parts of Skye. They had de- 
scended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry, 
and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together 
and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the 
third strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. 
Presently he came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe 
in his mouth, and an old newspaper in his hand, and threw him- 
self on the heathery scrub which met the shingle, within easy hail 
of the fishermen. There he lay, the picture of free-and-easy, 
loafing, hand-to-mouth young England, "improving his mind," 
as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the fortnight-old weekly 
paper, soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses and tobacco-ashes, 
the legacy of the last traveler, which he had hunted out from the 
kitchen of the little hostelry, and being a youth of a communi- 
cative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the fisher- 
men as he went on. 



302 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"What a bother they are making about these wretched Corn- 
laws; here's three or four columns full of nothing but sliding 
scales and fixed duties. Hang this tobacco, it's always going 
out! Ah, here's something better — a splendid match between 
Kent and England, Brown! Kent winning by three wickets. 
Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out! " 

Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered 
only with a grunt. 

''Anything about the Goodwood? " called out the third man. 

''Kory O'More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss," shouted the 
student. 

" Just my luck," grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the 
water, and throwing again with a heavy, sullen splash, and 
frightening Tom's fish. 

"I say, can't you throw lighter over there? we ain't fishing 
for grampuses," shouted Tom across the stream. 

'"Hullo, Brown! here's something for you," called out the 
reading man next moment. "Why, your old master, Arnold of 
Rugby, is dead." 

Tom's hand stopped half way in his cast, and his lines and flies 
went all tangling round and round his rod; you might have 
knocked him over with a feather. Neither of his companions 
took any notice of him, luckily; and with a violent effort he set 
to work mechanically to disentangle his line. He felt completely 
carried off his moral and intellectual I^gs, as if he had lost his 
standing point in the invisible world. Besides which, the deep 
loving loyalty which he felt for his old leader made the shock 
intensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the 
first gap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt 
numbed, and beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I believe it 
was good for him, and for many others in like case, who had to 
learn by that loss that the soul of man cannot stand or lean 
upon any human prop, however strong, and wise, and good ; but 
that He upon whom alone it can stand and lean will knock away 
all such props in his own wise and merciful way, until there is no 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 303 

ground or stay left but Himself, the Kock of Ages, upon whom 
alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid. 

As he wearily labored at bis line, the thought struck him, " It 
may all be false, a mere newspaper lie," and he strode up to the 
recumbent smoker. 

'' Let me look at the paper," said he. 

'' Nothing else in it," answered the other, handing it up to him 
listlessly. — "Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow— ain't 
you well?" 

"Where is it?" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands 
trembling, and his eyes swimming, so that he could not read. 

"What? What are you looking for?" said his friend, jump- 
ing up and looking over his shoulder. 

"That — about Arnold," said Tom. 

"Oh, here," said the other, putting his finger on the para- 
graph. Tom read it over and over again ; there could be no 
mistake of identity, though the account was short enough. 

"Thank you," said he at last, dropping the paper. "I shall 
go for a walk: don't you and Herbert wait supper for me." 
And away he strode, up over the moor at the back of the house, 
to be alone, and master his grief if possible. 

His friend looked after him, sympathizing and wondering, 
and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. 
After a short parley, they walked together up to the house. 

* < I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's 
fun for this trip." 

"How odd that he should be so fond of his old master," said 
Herbert. Yet they also were both public-school men. 

The two, however, notwithstanding Tom's prohibition, waited 
supper for him, and had everything ready when he came back 
some half an hour afterwards. But he could not join in their 
cheerful talk, and the party was soon silent; notwithstanding 
the efforts of all three. One thing only had Tom resolved, and 
that was, that he couldn't stay in Scotland any longer; he felt 
an irresistible longing to get to Rugby, and then home, and 
soon broke it to the others, who had too much tact to oppose. 



304 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

So by daylight the next morning he was marching through 
Eoss-shire, and in the evening hit the Caledonian canal, took the 
next steamer, and traveled as fast as boat and railway could 
carry him to the Kugby station. 

As he walked up to the town, he felt shy and afraid of being 
seen, and took the back streets; why, he didn't know, but he 
followed his instinct. At the school-gates he made a dead 
pause; there was not a soul in the quadrangle— all was lonely 
and silent and sad. So with another effort he strode through 
the quadrangle, and into the schoolhouse oflSces, 

He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; 
shook her hand, tried to talk, and moved nervously about. She 
was evidently thinking of the same subject as he, but he couldn't 
begin talking. 

''Where shall I find Thomas?" said he at last, getting des- 
perate. 

- "In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't you take any- 
thing? " said the matron, looking rather disappointed. 

"No, thank you," said he, and strode off again, to find the 
old verger, who was sitting in his little den as of old, puzzling 
over hieroglyphics. 

He looked up through his spectacles, as Tom seized his hand 
and wrung it. 

"Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see," said he. 

Tom nodded, and then sat down on the shoe-board, while the 
old man told his tale, and wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed 
over with quaint, homely, honest sorrow. 

By the time he had done, Tom felt much better. 

" Where is he buried, Thomas? " said he at last. 

''Under the altar in the chapel, sir," answered Thomas. 
" You'd like to have the key, I dare say." 

" Thank you, Thomas.— Yes, I should very much." And the old 
man fumbled among his bunch, and then got up, as though he 
would go with him, but after a few steps, stopped short, and said, 
" Perhaps you'd like to go by yourself, sir ? " 

Tom nodded, and the bunch of keys was handed to him, with 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 305 

an injunction to be sure and lock the door after him, and bring- 
them back before eight o'clock. 

He walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the 
close. The longing which had been upon him and driven him 
thus far, like the gad-fly in the Greek legends, giving him no 
rest in mind or body, seemed all of a sudden not to be satisfied, 
but to shrivel up, and pall. "Why should I go on? It's no 
use," he thought, and threw himself at full length on the turf,, 
and looked vaguely and listlessly at all the well known objects. 
There were a few of the town boys playing cricket, their wicket 
pitched on the best piece in the middle of the big-side ground — 
a sin about equal to a sacrilege in the eyes of the captain of 
the eleven. He was very nearly getting up to go and send 
them off. "Pshaw! they won't remember me. They've more 
right there than I," he muttered. And the thought that his 
scepter had departed, and his mark was wearing out, came 
home to him for the first time, and bitterly enough. He was 
lying on the very spot Avhere the fights came off; where he him- 
self had fought six years ago his first and last battle. He con- 
jured up the scene till he could almost hear the shouts of the 
ring, and East's whisper in his ear; and looking across the close 
to the Doctor's private door, half expected it to open, and the 
tall figure in cap and gown come striding under the elm trees 
towards him. 

No, no ! that sight could never be seen again. There was no 
flag flying on the round tower; the schoolhouse windows were 
all shuttered up; and when the flag went up again, and the 
shutters came down, it would be to welcome a stranger. All 
that was left on earth to him whom he had honored was lying 
cold and still under the chapel floor. He would go in and see 
the place once more, and then leave it once for all. New men 
and new methods might do for other people; let those who 
would worship the rising star; he, at least, would be faithful to 
the sun which had set. And so he got up and walked to the 
chapel door and unlocked it, fancying himself the only mourner 
in all the broad land, and feeding on his own selfish sorrow. 

T, L.— 20 



306 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a 
inoment to glance over the empty benches. His heart was still 
proud and high, and he walked up to the seat which he had last 
occupied as a sixth-form boy, and sat himself down there to col- 
lect his thoughts. 

And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order 
not a little. The memories of eight years were all dancing 
through his brain, and carrying him about whither they would, 
while beneath them all his heart was throbbing with the dull 
sense of loss that could never be made up to him. The rays of 
the evening sun came solemnly through the painted windows 
above his head, and fell in gorgeous colors on the opposite wall, 
and the perfect stillness soothed his spirit little by little. And 
he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then, leaning for- 
ward with his head on his hands, groaned aloud. "If he could 
only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes ; have told 
him all that was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved 
and reverenced him, and would, by God's help, follow his steps in 
life and death, he could have borne it all without a murmur. But 
that he should have gone away forever without knowing it all, 
was too much to bear." — "But am I sure he does not know it 
all ? " The thought made him start. "May he not even now be 
near me, in this very chapel? If he be, am I sorrowing as he 
w ould have me sorrow — as I should wish to have sorrowed when 
I shall meet him again ? " 

He raised himself up and looked round, -and after a minute 
rose and walked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down 
on the very seat which he had occupied on his first Sunday at 
Rugby. And then the old memories rushed back again, but 
softened and subdued, and soothing him as he let himself be car- 
ried away by them. And he looked up at the great painted win- 
dow above the altar, and remembered how, when a little boy, he 
used to try not to look through it at the elm trees and the rooks, 
before the painted glass came, and the subscription for the 
painted glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to 
it. And there, down below, was the very name of the boy who 



THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. 307 

sat on his right hand on that first day, scratched rudely on the 
oak paneling. 

And then came the thought of all his old schoolfellows, and 
form after form of boys, nobler and braver and purer than he, 
rose up and seemed to rebuke him. Could he not think of them, 
and what thej had felt and were feeling, they who had honored 
and loved from the first the man whom he had taken years to 
know and love? Could he not think of those yet dearer to him 
who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood, and 
were now without a husband or a father? Then the grief 
which he began to share with others became gentle and holy, 
and he rose up once more, and walked up the steps to the altar ; 
and while the tears flowed freely down his cheeks, knelt down 
humbly and hopefully, to lay down there his share of the burden 
which had proved itself too heavy for him to bear in his own 
strength. 

Here let us leave him — where better could we leave him, than 
at the altar, before which he had first caught a glimpse of the 
glory of his birthright, and felt the drawing of the bond which 
links all living souls together in one brotherhood— at the grave 
beneath the altar of him who had opened his eyes to see that 
glory, and softened his heart till it could feel that bond ? 

And let us not be hard on him if at that moment his soul is 
fuller of the tomb, and him who lies there, than of the altar and 
Him of whom it speaks. Such stages have to be gone through, I 
believe, by all young and brave souls, who must win their way 
through hero-worship to the worship of Him who is the King 
and Lord of heroes. For it is only through our mysterious 
human relationships, through the love and tenderness and purity 
of mothers, and sisters, and wives, through the strength, and 
courage, and wisdom of fathers, and brothers, and teachers, that 
we can come to the knowledge of Him in whom alone the love, 
and the tenderness, and the purity, and the strength, and the 
courage, and the wisdom of all these dwell forever and ever in 
perfect fullness. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 

1812-1870. 

Charles Dickens, who excels in popularity all other English novelists, 
was born at Portsmouth, England, in 1812. His early years were passed 
under scarcely less trying circumstances than described in his own story 
of David Copperfield. His father, although a man of conscientious intel- 
ligence, industrious, and punctual in his occupation — first a clerk in the 
Navy Pay Office at Portsmouth and later a reporter of Parliamentary 
debates — was too easy-tempered and too impractical in disposing of his 
moderate income, to keep pace with the wants of a rapidly increasing 
family. The boy's m.other seems to have been a person of more energy 
as well as of considerable accomplishments. She taught him the rudi- 
ments of Latin, and tried to establish a boarding-school in Gower street. 
The one parent was the original of Micawber, the other of Mrs. Nickleby. 
With all their united efforts they could not keep out of distress. The 
boarding-house scheme came too late, and when Dickens was nine years 
old the family was living in abject poverty in Bayham street, Camden 
Town, then one of the poorest suburbs of London, and their difficulties 
were increasing upon them. Charles was sent out to earn six shillings a 
week in a blacking warehouse, tying blue coyers on pots of paste black- 
ing. For tw^o years the child led a very hard, uncared-for life at this 
uncongenial work. He bitterly felt that it was uncongenial, for he was 
very precocious and had read much for a boy of his age, as fortunately 
his father possessed a small collection of books suited to his comprehen- 
sion. At twelve he was placed in school at Mornington Place for a brief 
period ; at fifteen he became office boy for an attorney at Gray's Inn. 
Later on he mastered the difficulties of shorthand and commenced the 
study of law, but soon changed his occupation to that of a reporter, first 
of law cases and then of political speeches in and out of Parliament. It 
was at this time that he made his first regular literary contribution, 
which appeared in the "Old Monthly Magazine," and which subsequently 
constituted a part of his first published book, "Sketches by Boz." Fol- 
lowing his first work, appeared at varying intervals "The Pickwick 
Papers," "Nicholas Nickleby," "Oliver Twist," "Old Curiosity Shop," 
"Barnaby Rudge," "Dombey and Son," and half a score of others whose 
names are almost household words. He possessed a fertility of imagina- 
tion scarcely equaled by any other writer, and his novels will live longer, 
(308) 



CHARLES DICKENS. 309 

because they take hold of the permanent and universal sentiments of the 
race — sentiments which pervade all classes, and which no culture can ever 
eradicate. 

CHAR ACTEKIZ ATION . 

As for the charities of Mr. Dickens, multiplied kindnesses which he has 
conferred upon us all, upon our children, upon people educated and unedu- 
cated, upon the myriads who speak our common tongue, have not you, 
have not I, all of us, reason to be thankful to this kind friend, who 
soothed and charmed so many hours, brought pleasure and laughter to 
so many homes, made such multitudes of children happy, endowed us 
with snch a sweet store of gracious thoughts, fair fancies, soft sympa- 
thies, hearty enjoyments? . . . I may quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a 
thousand and a thousand times; I delight and wonder at his genius: I 
recognize in it — I speak with awe and reverence — a commission from that 
Divine Beneficence whose bleyspd task we know it will one day be to wipe 
every tear from every eye. Thankfully I take my share of the feast of 
love and kindness which this gentle and generous and charitable soul has 
contributed to the happiness of the world. I take and enjoy my share, 
and say a benediction for the meal. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

Were all his books swept by some intellectual catastrophe out of the 
world, there would still exist in the world some score, at least, of peo- 
ple — with all those ways and sayings we are more intimately acquainted 
with than with those of our brothers and sisters — who would owe to him 
their being. While we live and while our children live, Sam Weller and 
Dick Swiveller, Mr. Pecksniff and Mrs. Gamp, the Micawbers and the 
Squeerses, can never die. . . . They are more real than we are our- 
selves, and will outlive and outlast us as they have outlived their creator. 
This is the one proof of genius which no critic, not the most carping or 
dissatisfied, can gainsay. "Blackwood's Magazine." 

Dr. Blimber's School. 

(From " Dombey and Son. ") 

W^henever a young gentleman was taken in hand by Doctor 
Blimber, he might consider himself sure of a pretty tight 
squeeze. The Doctor only undertook the charge of ten young 
gentlemen, but he had, always ready, a supply of learning for 
a hundred, on the lowest estimate; and it was at once the 
business and delight of his life to gorge the unhappy ten 
with it. 



310 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

In fact, Doctor Blimber's establishment was a great hot-house, 
in which there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. 
All the boys blew before their time. Mental green peas were 
produced at Christmas, and intellectual asparagus all the year 
round. Mathematical gooseberries (very sour ones too) were 
common at untimely seasons, and from mere sprouts of bushes, 
under Dr. Blimber's cultivation. Every description of Greek 
and Latin vegetable was got off the driest twigs of boys under 
the frostiest circumstances. Nature was of no consequence at 
all. No mattei* what a, young gentleman was intended to bear, 
Doctor Blimber made him bear to pattern, somehow or other. 

This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of 
forcing was attended with its usual disadvantages. There was 
not the right taste about the premature productions, and they 
didn't keep well. Moreover, one young gentleman, with a 
swollen nose and an excessively large head (the oldest of the 
ten, who had "gone through" everything), suddenly left off 
blowing one day, and remained in the establishment a mere 
stalk. And people did say that the Doctor had rather over- 
done it with young Toots, and that when he began to have 
whiskers he left off having brains. 

There young Toots was, at any rate; possessed of the gruffest 
of voices and the shrillest of minds; sticking ornamental pins 
into his shirt, and keeping a ring in his waistcoat pocket to put 
on his little finger by stealth, when the pupils went out walking; 
constantly falling in love by sight with nursery-maids, who had 
no idea of his existence; and looking at the gas-lighted world 
over the little iron bars in the left-hand corner window of the 
front three pairs of stairs, after bedtime, like a greatly over- 
grown cherub who had sat up aloft much too long. 

The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with 
strings at his knees, and stockings below them. He had a bald 
head, highly polished; a deep voice; and a chin so very double, 
that it was a wonder how he ever managed to shave into the 
creases. He ha,d likewise a pair of little eyes that were always 
half shut up, and a mouth that was always half expanded into a 



CHARLES DICKENS. 311 

grin, as if he had, that moment, posed a boy, and were waiting 
to convict him from his own hps. Insomuch, that when the Doc- 
tor put his right hand into the breast of his coat, and with his 
other hand behind him, and a scarcely perceptible wag of his 
head, made the commonest observation to a nervous stranger, 
it was like a sentiment from the Sphinx, and settled his business. 

The Doctor's was a mighty fine house, fronting the sea. Not 
a joyful style of house within, but quite the contrary. Sad-col- 
ored curtains, whose proportions were spare and lean, hid them- 
selves despondently behind the windows. The tables and chairs 
were put away in rows, like figures in a sum; fires Vvere so rarely 
lighted in the rooms of ceremony, that they felt like wells, and a 
visitor represented the bucket; the dining-room seemed the last 
place in the world where any eating or drinking was likely to 
occur; there was no sound through all the house but the ticking 
of a great clock in the hall, which made itself audible in the very 
garrets; and sometimes a dull crying of young gentlemen at 
their lessons, like the murmuring of an assemblage of melancholy 
pigeons. 

Miss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid, did no 
soft violence to the gravity of the house. There was no light 
nonsense about Miss Blimber. She kept her hair short and crisp, 
and wore spectacles. She was dry and sandy with working in the 
graves of deceased languages. None of your live languages for 
Miss Blimber. They must be dead — stone dead — and then Miss 
Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul. 

Mrs. Blimber, her mamma, was not learned herself, but she 
pretended to be, and that did quite as well. She said, at evening 
parties, that if she could have known Cicero, she thought she 
could have died contented. It was the steady joy of her life to 
see the Doctor's young gentlemen go out walking, unlike all 
other young gentlemen, in the largest possible shirt collars and 
the stiffest possible cravats. It was so classical, she said. 

As to Mr. Feeder, B.A., Doctor Blimber's assistant, he was a 
kind of human barrel-organ, with a little list of tunes at which 
he was continually working, over and over again, without any 



312 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

variation. He miglit have been fitted up with a change of bar- 
rels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny had been favorable; but 
it had not been ; and he had only one, with which, in a monoto- 
nous round, it was his occupation to bewilder the young ideas of 
Doctor Blimber's young gentlemen. The young gentlemen were 
prematurely full of carking anxieties. They knew no rest from 
the pursuit of stony-hearted verbs, savage noun-substantives, 
inflexible syntactic passages, and ghosts of exercises that ap- 
peared to them in their dreams. Under the forcing system, a 
young gentleman usually took leave of his spirits in three weeks. 
He had all the cares of the world on his head in three months. 
He conceived bitter sentiments against his parents or guardians 
in four; he was an old misanthrope in five; envied Curtius that 
blessed refuge in the earth in six; and at the end of the first 
twelvemonth had arrived at the conclusion, from which he never 
afterward departed, that all the fancies of the poets, and lessons 
of' the sages, were a mere collection of words and grammar, and 
had no other meaning in the world. 

But he went on, blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor's hot-house, 
all the time; and the Doctor's glory and reputation w^ere great 
when he took his wintry growth home to his relations and 
friends. 

Upon the Doctor's door-steps, one day, Paul stood with a 
fluttering heart, and with his small right hand in his father's. 
His other hand was locked in that of Florence. How tight the 
tiny pressure of that one ; and how loose and cold the other! 

Mrs. Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sable plum- 
age and her hooked beak, like a bird of ill-omen. She was out 
of breath— for IVlr. Dombey, full of great thoughts, had walked 
fast — and she croaked hoarsely as she waited for the opening of 
the door. 

"Now, Paul," said Mr. Dombey exultingly, "this is the way 
indeed to be Dombey and Son, and have money. You are 
almost a man already." 

"Almost," returned the child. 

Even his childish agitation could not master the sly and 



CHARLES DICKENS. 313 

quaint, yet touching look with which he accompanied the 
reply. 

It brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into Mr. 
Dombey's face; but the door being opened, it was quickly 
gone. 

'' Dr. Blimber is at home, I believe? " said Mr. Dombey. 

The man said yes; and, as they passed in, looked at Paul as 
if he were a little mouse, and the house were a trap. He was 
a weak-eyed young man, with the first faint streaks or early 
dawn of a grin on his countenance. It was mere imbecility; 
but Mrs. Pipchin took it into her head that it was impudence, 
and made a snap at him directly. 

"How dare you laugh behind the gentleman's back?" said 
Mrs. Pipchin. ''And what do you take me for? " 

" I ain't a laughing at nobody, and I'm sure I don't take you 
for nothing, ma'am!" returned the young man in consterna- 
tion. 

"A pack of idle dogs!" said Mrs. Pipchin, "only fit to be 
turnspits. Go and tell your master that Mr. Dombey's here, or 
it'll be worse for you ! " 

The weak-ej^ed young man went, very meekly, to discharge 
himself of this commission; and soon came back to invite them 
to the Doctor's study. 

" You're laughing again, sir," said Mrs. Pipchin, when it came 
to her turn, bringing up the rear, to pass him in the hall. 

" I ain't," returned the young man, grievously oppressed. "I 
never see such a thing as this ! " 

" What is the matter, Mrs. Pipchin? " said Mr. Dombey, look- 
ing round. " Softly ! Pra}^ ! " 

Mrs. Pipchin, in her defei^ence, merely muttered at the young 
man as she passed on, and said, " Oh ! he was a precious fellow — " 
leaving the young man, who was all meekness and incapacity, 
affected even to tears by the' incident. But Mrs. Pipchin had a 
way of falling foul of all meek people; and her friends said, who 
could wonder at it, after the Peruvian mines? 

The Doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe 



314 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Sit each knee, books all round him, Homer over the door, and 
Minerva on the mantel-shelf. "And how do you do, sir?" he 
said to Mr. Dombey, "and how is my little Mend?" Grave as 
an organ was the Doctor's speech ; and when he ceased, the great 
clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to take him up, and 
to go on saying, " How, is, my, lit, tie, friend?" "How, is, ni}^, 
lit, tie, friend? " over and over and over again. 

The little friend being somewhat too small to be seen at all 
from where the Doctor sat, over the books on his table, the Doc- 
tor made several futile attempts to get a view of him round the 
legs ; which Mr. Dombey perceiving, relieved the Doctor from his 
embarrassment by taking Paul up in his arms, and sitting him 
on another little table, over against the Doctor, in the middle of 
the room. 

"Ha! " said the Doctor, leaning back in his chair, with his 
hand in his breast. "Now I see my little friend. How do you 
do, my little friend ? " 

The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in 
the form of words, but continued to repeat " How, is, my, lit, tie, 
friend? how, is, my, lit, tie, friend?" 

"Very well, I thank you, sir," returned Paul, answering the 
clock quite as much as the Doctor. 

"Ha!" said Doctor Blimber. "Shall we make a man of 
him?" 

"Do you hear, Paul?" added Mr. Dombey; Paul being silent. 

" Shall we make a man of him ? " repeated the Doctor. 

"I had rather be a child," replied Paul. 

"Indeed!" said the Doctor. "Why?" 

The child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious 
expression of suppressed emotion in his face, and beating one 
hand proudly on his knee, as if he had the rising tears beneath 
it, and crushed them. But his other hand strayed a little way 
the while, a little further— further from him yet— until it lighted 
on the neck of Florence. "This is whj^," it seemed to say, and 
then the steady look was broken up and gone; the working lip 
was loosened ; and the tears came streaming forth. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 315 

" Mrs. Pipchin," said his father in a querulous manner, "I am 
really very sorry to see this."' 

Come away from him, do, Miss Dombey," quoth the matron. 

"Never mind,'" said the Doctor, blandly nodding his head to 
keep Mrs. Pipchin back. "Xe-vermind; we shall substitute new 
cares and new impressions, Mr. Dombey, very shorth\ You 
would still wish my little friend to acquire " 

"Everything, if you please, Doctor," returned Mr. Dombey 
firmly. 

"Yes," said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes and his 
usual smile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that 
might attach to some choice little animal he was going to stuff. 
"Yes, exactly. Ha! We shall impart a great variety of infor- 
mation to our little friend, and bring him quickly forward,! dare 
say. I dare say. Quite a virgin soil, I believe you said, Mr. 
Dombey?" 

"Except some ordinary preparation at home, and from this 
lady," replied Mr. Dombey, inti'oducing Mrs. Pipchin, who in- 
stantly communicated a rigidity to her whole muscular system, 
and snorted defiance beforehand, in case the Doctor should dis- 
parage her; "except so far, Paul has, as yet, applied himself to 
no studies at all." 

Doctor Blimber inclined his head, in gentle tolerance of such 
insignificant poaching as Mrs. Pipchin's, and said he was glad to 
hear it. It was much more satisfactory, he observed, rubbing his 
hands, to begin at the foundation. And again he leered at Paul, 
as if he would have liked to tackle him with the Greek alphabet 
on the spot. 

"That circumstance, indeed. Doctor Blimber," pursued Mr. 
Dombey, glancing at his little son, "and the interview I have 
already had the pleasure of holding with 3'ou, render any further 
explanation, and consequently, any further intrusion on your 
valuable time, so unnecessary, that " 

" Now, Miss Dombey ! " said the acid Pipchin. 

"Permit me," said the Doctor, "one moment. Allow me to 
present Mrs. Blimber and my daughter, who will be associated 



316 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim to Parnassus. Mrs. 
Blimber," — for the lady, who had perhaps been in waiting, oppor- 
tunely entered, followed by her daughter, th^t fair sexton in 
spectacles, — "Mr. Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, Mr. Dombey. 
Mr. Dombey, my love," pursued the Doctor, turning to his wife, 
''is so confiding as to — do you see our little friend ? " 

Mrs. Blimber, in an excess of politeness, of which Mr. Dombey 
was the object, apparently did not, for she was backing against 
the little friend, and very much endangering his position on the 
table. But, on this hint, she turned to admire his classical and 
intellectual lineaments, and turning again to Mr. Dombey, said, 
witli a sigh, that she envied his dear son. 

"Like a bee, sir," said Mrs. Blimber, with uplifted eyes, 
"about to plunge into a garden of the choicest flowers, and sip 
the sweets for the first time. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Terence, 
Plautus, Cicero. What a world of honey have we here! It may 
appear remarkable, Mr. Dombey, in one who is a wife — the wife 
of such a husband " 

" Hush, hush," said Dr. Blimber. " Fie for shame ! " 

"Mr. Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife," said Mrs. 
Blimber, with an engaging smile. 

Mr. Dombey answered, "Not at all;" applying those words, 
it is to be presumed, to the partiality, and not to the forgive- 
ness. 

" — And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother 
also — " resumed Mrs. Blimber. 

"And such a mother," observed Mr. Dombey, bowing with 
some confused idea of being complimentary to Cornelia. 

"But really," pursued Mrs. Blimber, "I think if I could have 
known Cicero, and been his friend, and talked with him in his 
retirement at Tusculum (beau-ti-ful Tusculum!), I could have 
died contented." 

A learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr. Dombey 
half believed this was exactly his case ; and even Mrs. Pipchin, 
who was not, as we have seen, of an accommodating disposition 
generally, gave utterance to a little sound between a groan and 



CHARLES DICKENS. 317 

a sigh, as if she would have said that nobody but Cicero could 
have proved a lasting consolation under that failure of the 
Peruvian mines, but that he indeed would have been a very 
Davy-lamp of refuge. 

Cornelia looked at Mr. Dombey through her spectacles as if 
she would have liked to crack a few quotations with him from 
the authority in question. But this design, if she entertained it, 
was frustrated by a knock at the room-door. 

''Who is that?" said the Doctor. ^'Oh! Come in. Toots; 
come in. Mr, Dombey, sir." Toots bowed. " Quite a coinci- 
dence!" said Doctor Blimber. "Here we have the beginning 
and the end. iilpha and Omega. Our head boy, Mr. Dombey." 

The Doctor might have called bim their head-and-shoulders 
boy, for he was at least that much taller than any.of the rest. 
He blushed very much at finding himself among strangers, and 
chuckled aloud. 

"An addition to our little Portico, Toots," said the Doctor; 
<'Mr Dombey's son." 

Young Toots blushed again; and finding, from a solemn 
silence which prevailed, that he was expected to say something, 
said to Paul, " How are you? " in a voice so deep, and a manner 
so sheepish, that if a lamb had roared it couldn't have been more 
surprising. 

"Ask Mr. Feeder, if you please, Toots," said the Doctor, "to 
prepare a few introductory volumes for Mr. Dombey's son, and 
to allot him a convenient seat for study. My dear, I believe Mr. 
Dombey has not seen the dormitories." 

"If Mr. Dombey will walk upstairs," said Mrs. Blimber, "I 
shall be more than proud to show him the dominions of the 
drowsy god." 

AVith that Mrs. Blimber, who was a ladj^ of great suavity, and 
a wiry figure, and who wore a cap composed of sky-blue mate- 
rials, proceeded upstairs with Mr. Dombey and Cornelia; Mrs. 
Pipchin following, and looking out sharp for her enemy the foot- 
man. While they were gone, Paul sat upon the table, holding 
Florence by the hand, and glancing timidlj^ from the Doctor 



318 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

round and round the room, while the Doctor, leaning back in 
his chair, with his hand in his breast as usual, held a book from 
him at arm's length, and read. There was something very 
awful in this manner of reading. It was such a determined, 
unimpassioned, inflexible, cold-blooded way of going to work. 
It left the Doctor's countenance exposed to view; and when the 
Doctor smiled auspiciously at his author, or knit his brows, or 
shook his head and made wry faces at him as much as to say, 
"Don't tell me, sir; I know better," it was terrific. 

Toots, too, had no business to be outside the door, ostenta- 
tiously examining the wheels of his watch, and counting his 
half-crowns. But that didn't last long; for Dr. Blimber, 
happening to change the position of his tight plump legs, as if 
he were going to get up. Toots swiftly vanished, and appeared 
no more. 

Mr. Dombey and his conductress were soon heard coming 
down-stairs again, talking all the way; and presently they 
re-entered the Doctor's study. 

^'I hope, Mr. Dombey," said the Doctor, laying down his 
book, '' that the arrangements meet your approval? " 

"They are excellent, sir," said Mr. Dombey. 

''Very fair indeed," said Mrs. Pipchin, in a low voice; never 
disposed to give too much encouragement. 

''Mrs. Pipchin," said Mr. Dombey, wheeling round, "will, with 
your permission, Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, visit Paul now and 
then." 

" Whenever Mrs. Pipchin pleases," observed the Doctor. 

" Always happy to see her," said Mrs. Blimber. 

" I think," said Mr. Dombey," " I have given all the trouble I 
need, and may take my leave. Paul, my child," — he went close 
to him, as he sat upon the table,— "good-by." 

"Good-by, papa." 

The limp and careless little hand that Mr. Dombey took in his 
w^as singularly out of keeping with the wistful face. But he had 
no part in its sorrowful expression. It was not addressed to 
him. No, no. To Florence — all to Florence. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 319 

If Mr. Dombey, in his insolence of wealth, had ever made an 
enemy, hard to appease and cruelly vindictive in his hate, even 
such an enemy might have received the pang that wrung his 
proud heart then as comf)ensation for his injury. 

He bent down over his boy, and kissed him. If his sight were 
dimmed, as he did so, by something that for a moment blurred 
the little face, and made it indistinct to him, his mental vision 
may have been for that short time, the clearer, perhaps. 

"I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Saturdays and 
Sundays, you know." 

''Yes, papa," returned Paul, looking at his sister. " On Satur- 
days and Sundays." 

"And you'll try and learn a great deal here, and be a clever 
man," said Mr. Dombey; " won't you?" 

"I'll try," returned the child wearily. 

"And you'll soon be grown up now! " said Mr. Dombey. 

"Oh! very soon ! " replied the child. Once more the old, old 
look passed rapidly across his features like a strange light. It 
fell on Mrs. Pipchin, and extinguished itself in her black dress. 
That excellent ogress stepped forward to take leave and to bear 
off Florence, which she had long been thirsting to do. The move 
on her part roused Mr. Dombey, whose eyes were fixed on 
Paul. After patting him on the head, and pressing his small 
hand again, he took leave of Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and 
Miss Blimber with his usual polite frigidity, and walked out of 
the study. 

Despite his entreaty that they would not think of stirring. 
Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Blimber all pressed for- 
ward to attend him to the hall; and thus Mrs. Pipchin got into 
a state of entanglement with Miss Blimber and the Doctor, and 
was crowded out of the study before she could clutch Florence. 
To which happy accident Paul stood afterward indebted for 
the dear remembrance, that Florence ran back to throw her arms 
around his neck, and that hers was the last face in the door-way, 
turned toward him with a smile of encouragement, the brighter 
for the tears through which it beamed. 



320 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

It made his childish bosom heave and swell when it was 
gone; and sent the globes, the books, blind Homer, and Minerva 
swimming around the room. But they stopped all of a sudden ; 
and then he heard the loud clock in the hall still gravely in- 
quiring, "How, is, my, lit, tie, friend? how, is, my, lit, tie, 
friend ? " as it had done before. 

He sat, with folded bauds, upon his pedestal, silently listen- 
ing. But he might have answered, "Weary, weary! very lonely, 
very sad! " And there with an aching void in his 3^oung 
heart, and all outside so cold, and bare, and strange, Paul 
sat as if he had taken life unfurnished, and the upholsterer 
were never coming. 

After the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an immense 
time to little Paul Dombey on the table, Doctor Blimber came 
back. The Doctor's walk was stately, and calculated to impress 
the juvenile mind with solemn feelings. It was a sort of 
march ; but when the Doctor put out his right foot, he gravely 
turned upon his axis, with a semi-circular sweep toward the 
left; and when he put out his left foot, he turned in the same 
manner toward the right. So that he seemed, at every stride 
he took, to look about him as though he were saying, "Can 
anybody have the goodness to indicate any subject, in an;f 
direction on which I am uninformed? I rather think not." 

Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor's 
company; and the Doctor, lifting his new pupil off the table, 
delivered him over to Miss Blimber. 

"Cornelia," said the Doctor, "Dombey will be your charge at 
first. Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on." 

Miss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor's 
hands; and Paul, feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, 
cast down his eyes. 

"How old are you, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber. 

"Six," answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the 
young lady, why her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and 
why she was like a boy. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 321 

"How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dom- 
bey ? " said Miss Blimber. 

" None of it," answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a 
shock to Miss Blimber's sensibility, he looked up at the three 
faces looking down at him, and said : 

"I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't 
learn a Latin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old 
Glubb. I wish you'd tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you 
please." 

"What a dreadfully low name!" said Mrs. Blimber. "Un- 
classical to a degree ! Who is the monster, child? " 

'•' What monster? " inquired Paul. 

" Glubb," said Mrs. Blimber, with a great disrelish. 

" He's no more a monster than you are," returned Paul. 

"What!" cried the Doctor in a terrible voice. "Ay, ay, ay? 
Aha! What's that?" 

Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand 
for the absent Glubb, though he did it trembling. 

"He's a very nice old man, ma'am," he said. "He used to 
draw my couch. He know^s all about the deep sea, and the 
fish that are in it, and the great monsters that come and lie on 
rocks in the sun, and dive into the water again when they're 
startled, blowing and splashing so, that they can be heard for 
miles. There are some creatures," said Paul, warming with his 
subject, " I don't know how many yards long, and I forget their 
names, but Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress; and 
when a man goes near them, oat of compassion, they open 
their great jaws and attack him. But all he has got to do," 
said Paul, boldly tendering this information to the very Doctor, 
himself, "is to keep on turning as he runs away, and then, as 
they turn slowly, because they are so long, and can't bend, he's 
sure to beat them. And though old Glubb don't know why 
the sea should make me think of my mamma' that's dead, or 
what it is that it is always saying— always saying! he knows a 
great deal about it. And I wish," the child concluded, with a 
sudden falling of his countenance, and failing in his anima- 

T. L.— 21 



322 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

tion, as he looked like one forlorn upon the three strange faces, 
"that 3^ou'cl let old Glubb come here to see me, for I know him 
very well, and he knows me." 

"Ha!" said the Doctor, shaking his head; "this is bad, but 
study will do much." 

Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he 
was an unaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of 
visage, looked at him pretty much as Mrs. Pipchin had been used 
to do. 

" Take him round the house, Cornelia," said the doctor, "and 
familiarize him with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, 
Dombey." 

Dombey obeyed: giving his hand to abstruse Cornelia, and 
looking at her sideways, with timid curiosity, as they went away 
together. For her spectacles, by reason of the glistening of the 
glasses, made her so mysterious, that he didn't know where she 
was looking, and was not, indeed, quite sure that she had any 
eyes at all behind them. 

Cornelia took him first to the schoolroom, w^hich was situated 
at the back of the hall, and was approached through two baize 
doors, which deadened and muffled the young gentlemen's voices. 
Here there were eight young gentlemen in various stages of men- 
tal prostration, all very hard at work, and very grave indeed. 
Toots, as an old hand, had a desk to himself in one corner: and 
a magnificent man, of immense age, he looked, in Paul's young 
eyes, behind it. 

Mr. Feeder, B.A., who sat at another little desk, had his Virgil 
stop on, and was slowly grinding that tune to four young gen- 
tlemen. Of the remaining four, two, who grasped their fore- 
heads convulsively, were engaged in solving mathematical 
problems; one with his face like a dirty window, from much cry- 
ing, was endeavoring to flounder through a hopeless number of 
lines before dinner; and one sat looking at his task in stony 
stupefaction and despair— which it seemed had been his condition 
ever since breakfast-time. 

The appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation that 



CHARLES DICKENS. 323 

might have been expected. Mr. Feeder, B.A. (who was in the 
habit of shaving his head for coohiess, and had nothing but little 
bristles on it), gave him a bony hand, and told him he was glad 
to see him— which Paul would have been very glad to have told 
him, it he could have done so with the least sincerity. Then Paul, 
instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with the four young gentle- 
men at Mr. Feeder's desk ; then with the two young gentlemen at 
w^ork on the problems, who were very feverish; then with the 
young gentleman at work against time, who was very inky; and 
lastly, with the young gentleman in a state of stupefaction, 
who was flabby and quite cold. 

Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that pupil 
merely chuckled and breathed hard, as his custom was, and 
pursued the occupation in which he was engaged. It was not 
a severe one; for on account of his having ''gone through" so 
much (in more senses than one), and also of his having, as 
before hinted, left off blowing in his prime. Toots now had 
license to pursue his own course of study; which was chiefly 
to write long letters to himself from persons of distinction, ad- 
dressed "P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, Sussex," and to preserve 
them in his desk with great care. 

These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul upstairs to the 
top of the house; which was rather a slow journey, on account 
of Paul being obliged to land both feet on every stair before he 
mounted another. But they reached their journey's end at 
last; and there in a front room, looking over the wild sea, 
Cornelia showed him a nice little bed with white hangings, 
close to the window, on which there was already beautifully 
written on a card in round text — down strokes very thick, and 
upstrokes very fine— Dombey; while two other little bedsteads 
in the same room were announced, through like means, as 
respectively appertaining unto Briggs and Tozer. 

Just as they got down-stairs again into the hall, Paul saw the 
weak-eyed young man, who had given that mortal offense to 
Mrs. Pipchin, suddenly seize a very large drum-stick, and fly 
at a gong that was hanging up, as if he had gone mad, or 



824 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

wanted vengeance. Instead of receiving warning, however, or 
being instantly taken into custody, the young man left off un- 
checked after having made a dreadful noise. Then Cornelia 
Blimber said to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quar- 
ter of an hour, and perhaps he had better go into the school 
room among his "friends." 

So Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock, which was 
still as anxious as ever to know how he found himself, opened 
the schoolroom door a very little way, and strayed in like a lost 
boy: shutting it after him with some difficulty. His friends were 
all dispersed about the room except the stony friend, who re- 
mained immovable. Mr. Feeder was stretching himself in his 
gray gown, as if, regardless of expense, he were resolved to pull 
the sleeves off. 

"Heigh ho hum!" cried Mr. Feeder, shaking himself like a 
cart-horse. " Oh dear me, dear me ! Ya-a-a-ah ! " 

Paul was quite alarmed by Mr. Feeder's yawning; it was done 
on such a great scale, and he w^as so terribly in earnest. All the 
boys, too (Toots excepted), seemed knocked up, and were get- 
ting ready for dinner — some newly tying their neckcloths, which 
were very stiff indeed ; and others washing their hands, Or brush- 
ing their hair, in an adjoining ante-chamber — as if they didn't 
think they should enjoy it at all. 

Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had therefore 
nothing to do, and had leisure to bestow upon Paul, said, with 
heavy good-nature: 

"Sit down, Dombey." 

"Thank you, sir," said Paul. 

His endeavoring to hoist himself onto a very high window- 
seat, and his slipping down again, appeared to prepare Toots's 
mind for the reception of a discovery. 

" Y^ou're a very small chap," said Mr. Toots. 

"Yes, sir, I'm small," returned Paul. " Thank you, sir." 

For Toots had lifted him into his seat, and done it kindly too. 

"Who's your tailor?" inquired Toots, after looking at him 
for some moments. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 325 

''It's a woman that has made my clothes as yet," said Paul. 
"My sister's dressmaker." 

<'My tailor's Burgess and Co.," said Toots. "Fash'nable. 
But very dear." 

Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he would have 
said it was easy to see that ; and, indeed, he thought so. 

"Your father's regularly rich, ain't he?" inquired Mr. Toots. 

''Yes, sir," said Paul. " He's Dombey and Son." 

"And which? " demanded Toots. 

"And Son, sir," replied Paul. 

Mr. Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, to fix 
the firm in his mind ; but not quite succeeding, said he would get 
Paul to mention the name again to-morrow morning, as it was 
rather important. And, indeed, he purposed nothing less than 
writing himself a private and confidential letter from Dombey 
and Son immediately. 

By this time the other pupils (always excepting the stony boy) 
gathered round. They were polite, but pale; and spoke low; 
and they were so depressed in their spirits, that, in comparison 
with the general tone of that company, Master Bitherstone was 
a perfect Miller, or complete Jest Book. And yet he had a sense 
of injury upon him too, had Bitherstone. 

"You sleep in my room, don't you?" asked a solemn young 
gentleman, whose shirt collar curled up to the lobes of his ears. 

" Master Briggs? " inquired Paul. 

" Tozer," said the young gentleman. 

Paul answered yes ; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupil, 
said that was Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must 
be either Briggs or Tozer, though he didn't know why. 

"Is yours a strong constitution? " inquired Tozer. 

Paul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought not, 
also, judging from Paul's looks, and that it was a pity, for it need 
be. He then asked Paul if he were going to begin with Cornelia; 
and, on Paul saying " l^es," all the young gentlemen (Briggs ex- 
cepted) gave a low groan. 

It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, which 



326 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

sounding: again with great fury, there was a general move to- 
ward the dining-room; still excepting Briggs, the stony boy, who 
remained where he was, and as he was; and on its w^ay to whom 
Paul presently encountered a round of bread, genteelly served on 
a plate and napkin, and with a silver fork lying crosswise on the 
top of it. Doctor Blimber was already in his place in the dining- 
room, at the top of the table, with Miss Blimber and Mrs. Blimber 
on either side of him. Mr. Feeder, in a black coat, was at the 
bottom. Paul's chair was next to Miss Blimber; but it being 
found, when he sat in it, that his eyebrow^s were not much above 
the level of the table-cloth, some books were brought in from the 
Doctor's study, on which he was elevated, and on which he always 
sat from that time — carrying them in and out himself, on after 
occasions, like a little elephant and castle. 

Grace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There 
was some nice soup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, 
pie and cheese. Every young gentleman had a massive silver 
fork, and a napkin; and all the arrangements w^ere stately and 
handsome. In particular, there was a butler in a blue coat and 
bright buttons, who gave quite a winy flavor to the table beer; 
he poured it out so superbly. 

Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blimber, Mrs. 
Blimber, and Miss Blimber, who conversed occasionally. When- 
ever a young gentleman was not actually engaged with his knife 
and fork or spoon, his eye, with an irresistible attraction, sought 
the eye of Dr. Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, or Miss Blimber, and mod- 
estly rested there. Toots appeared to be the only exception to 
this rule. He sat next Mr. Feeder, on Paul's side of the table, 
and frequently looked behind and before the intervening boys to 
catch a glimpse of Paul. 

Only once during dinner was there any conversation that 
included the young gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of the 
cheese, when the Doctor, having taken a glass of port wine, and 
hemmed twice or thrice, said : 

" It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder, that the Romans " 

At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable ene- 



CHARLES DICKENS. 327 

mies, every young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, 
with an assumption of the deepest interest. One of the number, 
who happened to be drinking, and who caught the Doctor's eve 
glaring at him through the side of his tumbler, left off so hastily 
that he was convulsed for some moments, and in the sequel ruined 
Doctor Blimber's point. 

"It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder," said the Doctor, beginning 
again slowly, "that the Eomans, in those gorgeous and profuse 
entertainments of which we read in the days of the Emperors, 
when luxury had attained a height unknown before or since, and 
when whole provinces were ravaged to supply the splendid means 
of one imperial banquet " 

Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and 
waiting in vain for a full stop, broke out violently. 

*" Johnson," said Mr. Feeder in a low, reproachful voice, "take 
some water." 

The Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water 
was brought, and then resumed : 

"And when, Mr. Feeder " 

But Mr. Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break out again, 
and who knew that the Doctor would never come to a period 
before the young gentlemen until he had finished all he meant to 
say, couldn't keep his eye off Johnson; and thus was caught in 
the fact of not looking at the Doctor, who consequently stopped. 

" I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Feeder, reddening. " I beg 
your pardon. Doctor Blimber." 

"And when," said the Doctor, raising his voice, "when, sir, as 
we read, and have no reason to doubt — incredible as it may ap- 
pear to the vulgar of our time — the brother of Vitellius pre- 
pared for him a feast, in which were served, of fish, two thousand 
dishes " 

"Take some water, Johnson — dishes, sir," said Mr. Feeder. 

"Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes " 

" Or try a crust of bread," said Mr. Feeder. 

"And one dish," pursued Dr. Blimber, raising his voice still 
higher as he looked all round the table, "called, from its 



328 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

enormous dimensions, the Shield of Minerva, and made, among 
other costly ingredients, of the brains of pheasants " 

" Ow, ow, ow ! " (from Johnson) . 

''Woodcocks " 

''Ow, ow, ow! " 

"The sounds of the fish called scari ■" 

"You'll burst some vessel in your head," said Mr. Feeder. 
<' You had better let it come." 

"And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian 
Sea," pursued the Doctor in his severest voice; "when we read 
of costly entertainments such as these, and still remember that 
we have a Titus " 

" What would be your mother's feelings if you died of apo- 
plexy?" said Mr. Feeder. 

"A Domitian " 

"And you're blue, you know," said Mr. Feeder. 

."A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabulus and many 
more," pursued the Doctor; "it is, Mr. Feeder— if you are doing 
me the honor to attend — remarkable; very remarkable, sir " 

But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that 
moment into such an overwhelming fit of coughing, that, 
although both his immediate neighbors thumped him on the 
back, and Mr, Feeder himself held a glass of water to his lips, 
and the butler walked him up and down several times between 
his own chair and the sideboard, like a sentry, it was full five 
minutes before he was moderately composed, and then there 
was a profound silence. 

"Gentlemen," said Doctor Blimber, "rise for Grace! Cornelia, 
lift Dombey down" — nothing of whom but his scalp was accord- 
ingly seen above the table-cloth. "Johnson will repeat to me 
to-morrow morning before breakfast, without book, and from 
the Greek Testament, the first chapter of the Epistle of St. Paul 
to the Ephesians. We will resume our studies, Mr. Feeder, in 
half an hour." 

The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr. Feeder did 
likewise. During the half-hour, the young gentlemen, broken 



CHARLES DICKENS. 329 

into pairs, loitered arm-in-arm up and down a small piece of 
ground behind the house, or endeavored to kindle a spark of 
animation in the breast of Briggs. But nothing happened so 
vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed time the gong 
was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of Doctor 
Blimber and Mr. Feeder, were resumed. 

As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been 
cut shorter than usual that day, on Johnson's account, they all 
went out for a walk before tea. Even Briggs (though he hadn't 
begun yet) partook of this dissipation; in the enjoyment of 
which he looked over the cliff two or three times darkly. 
Doctor Blimber accompanied them ; and Paul had the honor of 
being taken in tow by the Doctor himself; a distinguished state 
of things, in which he looked very little and feeble. 

Tea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner; and 
after tea, the young gentlemen, rising and bowing as before, 
withdrew to fetch up the unfinished tasks of that day, or to get 
up the already looming tasks of to-morrow. In the mean time 
Mr. Feeder withdrew to his own room; and Paul sat in a 
corner, wondering whether Florence was thinking of him, and 
what they were all about at Mrs. Pipchin's. 

Mr. Toots, who had been detained by an important letter 
from the Duke of Wellington, found Paul out after a time, and 
having looked at him for a long while, as before, inquired if he 
was fond of waistcoats. 

Paul said, "Yes, sir." 

" So am I," said Toots. 

No word more spake Toots that night; but he stood looking 
at Paul as if he liked him ; and as there was company in that, 
and Paul was not inclined to talk, it answered his purpose better 
than conversation. 

At eight o'clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers in 
the dining-room, where the butler afterward presided over a side- 
table on which bread and cheese and beer were spread for such 
young gentlemen as desired to partake of those refreshments. 
The ceremonies concluded by the Doctor's saying, "Gentlemen, 



330 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow: " and then, for 
the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber's eye, and saw that it 
Avas upon him. When the Doctor had said these words "Gentle- 
men, we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow," the pupils 
bowed again and went to bed. 

In the confidence of their own room upstairs, Briggs said his 
head ached ready to spilt, and that he should wish himself dead 
if it wasn't for his mother, and a blackbird he had at home. 
Tozer didn't say much, but he sighed a good deal, and told Paul 
to look out, for his turn would come to-morrow. After uttering 
those prophetic words, he undressed himself moodily, and got into 
bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and Paul in his bed too, before 
the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away the candle, 
when he wished them good-night and pleasant dreams. But his 
benevolent wishes were in vain as far as Briggs and Tozer were 
concerned; for Paul, who lay awake for a long while, and often 
woke afterward, found that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a 
nightmare; and that Tozer, whose mind was affected in his sleep 
by similar causes, in a minor degree, talked unknown tongues, 
or scraps of Greek and Latin — it was all one to Paul — which, 
in the silence of night, had an inexpressibly wicked and. guilty 
effect. 

Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was 
walking hand in hand with Florence through beautiful gardens, 
when they came to a large sunfiower which suddenly expanded 
itself into a gong, and began to sound. Opening his eyes, he 
found that it was a dark, windy morning, with a drizzling rain; 
and that the real gong was giving dreadful note of preparation 
down in the hall. 

So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly any eyes, 
for nightmare and grief had made his face puffy, putting his 
boots on; while Tozer stood shivering and rubbing his shoulders 
in a very bad humor. Poor Paul couldn't dress himself easily, 
not being used to it, and asked them if they would have the 
goodness to tie some strings for him ; but, as Briggs merely said 
"Bother!" and Tozer, "Oh yes!" he went down, when he was 



CHARLES DICKENS. 331 

otherwise ready, to the next story, where he saw a pretty young 
woraan in leather gloves, cleaning a stove. The young woman 
seemed surprised at his appearance, and asked him where his 
mother was. When Paul told her she was dead, she took her 
gloves off, and did what he wanted ; and furthermore rubbed his 
hands to warm them; and gave him a kiss ; and told him when- 
ever he wanted anything of that sort — meaning in the dressing 
way — to ask for 'Melia; which Paul, thanking her very much, 
said he certainly would. He then proceeded softly on his Journey 
down-stairs, toward the room in which the young gentlemen 
resumed their studies, when, passing by a door that stood ajar, 
a voice from within cried, "Is that Dombey?" On Paul reply- 
ing, " Yes, ma'am," for he knew the voice to be Miss Blimber's: 
Miss Blimber said, " Come in, Dombey." And in he went. 

Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she had pre- 
sented yesterday, except that she wore a shawl. Her little light 
curls were as crisp as ever, and she had already her spectacles on, 
which made Paul wonder whether she went to bed in them. She 
had a cool little sitting-room of her own up there, with some 
books in it, and no fire. But Miss Blimber was never cold, and 
never sleepy. 

" Now, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, " I'm going out for a con- 
stitutional." 

Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn't send the 
footman out to get it in such unfavorable weather. But he made 
no observation on the subject; his attention being devoted to a 
little pile of new books, on which Miss Blimber appeared to have 
been recently engaged. 

" These are yours, Dombey," said Miss Blimber. 

"All of 'em, ma'am?" said Paul. 

"Yes," returned Miss Blimber; " and Mr. Feeder will look you 
out some more very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you 
will be, Dombey." 

"Thank you, ma'am," said Paul. 

"I am going out for a constitutional," resumed Miss Blimber; 
" and while I am gone, that is to say, in the interval between this 



332 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and breakfast, Dombey, I wish you to read over what 1 have 
marked in these books, and to tell me if you quite understand 
what you have g-ot to learn. Don't lose time, Dombey, for 
you have none to spare, but take them down-stairs, and begin 
directly." 

''Yes, ma'am," answered Paul. 

There were so many of them, that, although Paul put one 
hand under the bottom book, and his other hand and his chin 
on the top book, and hugged them all closely, the middle book 
slipped out before he reached the door, and then they all tumbled 
down on the floor. Miss Blimber said, " Oh, Dombey, Dombey, 
this is really very careless ! " and piled them up afresh for him ; 
and this time, by dint of balancing them wdth great nicety, Paul 
got out of the room, and down a few stairs, before two of them 
escaped again. But he held the rest so tight, that he only left 
one more on the first floor, and one in the passage ; and when he 
had got the main body down into the schoolroom, he set off up- 
stairs again to collect the stragglers. Having at last amassed 
the whole library and climbed into his place, he fell to work, en- 
couraged by a remark from Tozer to the effect that he "was in 
for it now; " which was the only interruption he received till 
breakfast-time. At that meal, for which he had no appetite, 
everything was quite as solemn and genteel as at the others; and 
when it was finished he followed Miss Blimber upstairs. 

"Now, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, "how have you got on 
with those books ? " 

They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin — names 
of things, declensions of articles and substantives, exercises 
thereon, and preliminary rules — a trifle of orthography, a glance 
at ancient history, a wink or two at modern ditto, a few tables, 
two or three weights and measures, and a little general informa- 
tion. When poor Paul had spelt out number two, he found he 
had no idea of number one; fragments whereof afterward ob- 
truded themselves into number three, which slided into number 
four, which grafted itself on to number two. So that whether 
twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hie hsec hoc was troy 



CHARLES DICKENS. 333 

weight, or a verb always agreed with an ancient Briton, or three 
times four was Taurus a bull, were open questions with him. 

"Oh, Dombey, Dombey!" said Miss Blimber, "this is very 
shocking." 

"If you please," said Paul, "I think, if I might som.etimes 
talk a little to old Glubb, I should be able to do better." 

"Nonsense, Dombej^," said Miss Blimber. "I couldn't hear of 
it. This is not the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must 
take the books down, I suppose, Dombey, one by one, and per- 
fect yourself in the day's installment of subject A, before you 
turn at all to subject B. And now take away the top book, if 
you please, Dombey, and return when you are master of the 
theme." 

Miss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of Paul's 
uninstructed state with a gloomy delight, as if she had expected 
this result, and were glad to find that they must be in constant 
communication. Paul withdrew with the top task, as he was 
told, and labored away at it down below: sometimes remember- 
ing every word of it, and sometimes forgetting it all, and every- 
thing else besides: until at last he ventured upstairs again to 
repeat the lesson, when it was nearly all driven out of his head 
before he began, by Miss Blimber's shutting up the book, and 
saying, "Go on, Dombey!" a proceeding so suggestive of the 
knowledge inside of her, that Paul looked upon the young lady 
with consternation, as a kind of learned Guy Fawkes, or artificial 
Bogie, stuffed full of scholastic straw. 

He acquitted himself very well, nevertheless ; and Miss Blimber, 
commending him as giving promise of getting on fast, imme- 
diately provided him with subject B ; from which he passed to C, 
and even D before dinner. It was hard work, resuming his studies 
soon after dinner; and he felt giddy and confused, and drowsy 
and dull. But all the other young gentlemen had similar sensa- 
tions, and were obliged to resume their studies too, if there were 
any comfort in that. It was a wonder that the great clock in the 
hall, instead of being constant to its first inquiry, never said, 
"Gentlemen, we wiU now resume our studies,'" for that phrase 



334 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

was often enough repeated in its neighborhood. The studies 
went round like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were 
always stretched upon it. 

After tea there were exercises again, and preparations for next 
day by candle-light. And in due course there was bed ; where, but 
for that resumption of the studies which took place in dreams, 
were rest and sweet forgetfulness. 

Oh, Saturdays ! Oh, happy Saturdays! when Florence always 
came at noon, and never would, in any weather, stay away, 
though Mrs. Pipchin snarled and growled, and worried her bit- 
terly. Those Saturdays were Sabbaths for at least two little 
Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy Sabbath work 
of strengthening and knitting up a brother's and a sister's love. 

Not even Sunday nights — the heavy Sunday nights, whose 
shadow darkened the first waking burst of light on Sunday 
mornings — could mar those precious Saturdays. Whether it 
was the great sea-shore, where they sat and strolled together; 
or whether it was only Mrs. Pipchin's dull back room, in which 
she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon her arm ; 
Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of. 
So, on Sunday nights, when the Doctor's dark door stood agape 
to swallow him up for another week, the time was come for tak- 
ing leave of Florence ; no one else. 

Mrs. Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, 
and Miss Nipper, now a smart young woman, had come down. 
To many a single combat with Mrs. Pipchin did Miss Nipper gal- 
lantly devote herself ; and if ever Mrs. Pipchin in all her life had 
found her match, she had found it now. Miss Nipper threw away 
the scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs. Pipchin's house. 
She asked and gave no quarter. She said it must be war, and 
war it was; and Mrs. Pipchin lived from that time in the midst 
of surprises, harassings, and defiances ; and skirmishing attacks 
that came bouncing in upon her from the passage, even in 
unguarded moments of chops, and carried desolation to her very 
toast. 

Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Florence, 



CHARLES DICKENS. 335 

from walking back with Paul to the Doctor's when Florence took 
froni her bosom a little piece of paper, on which she had penciled 
down some words. 

'<See here, Susan," she said. "These are the names of the 
little books that Paul brings home to do those long exercises 
with, when he is so tired. I copied them last night while he was 
writing." 

"Don't show 'em to me, Miss Floy, if you please," returned 
Nipper; " I'd as soon see Mrs. Pipchin." 

"I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, to-mor- 
row morning. I have money enough," said Florence. 

"Why, goodness gracious me. Miss Floy," returned Miss 
Nipper, " how can you talk like that, when you have books upon 
books already, and masterses and misses a teaching of you 
everything continual, though my belief is that your pa, Miss 
Dombey, never would have learnt you nothing, never would 
have thought of it, unless you'd asked him — when he couldn't 
well refuse; but giving consent when asked, and offering when 
unasked, miss, is quite two things; I may not have any objec- 
tions to a young man's keeping company with me, and when he 
puts the question, may say "Yes," but that's not saying, 
' Would you be so kind as like me? ' " 

"But you can buy me the books, Susan; and you will, when 
you know I want them." 

"Well, miss, and why do you want 'em?" replied Nipper; 
adding, in a lower voice, "If it was to fling at Mrs. Pipchin's 
head, I'd buy a cart-load." 

" I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if I had 
these books," said Florence, "and make the coming week a little 
easier to him. At least I want, to try. So buy them for me, 
dear, and I will never forget how kind it was of you to do it ! " 

It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper's that 
could have rejected the little purse Florence held out with these 
w^ords, or the gentle look of entreaty with which she seconded 
her petition. Susan put the purse in her pocket without repl3^ 
and trotted out at once upon her errand. 



336 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

The books were not easy to procure; and the answer at 
several shops was, either that they were just out of them, or that 
they never kept them, or that they had had a great man}^ last 
month, or that they expected a great many next week. But 
Susan was not easily baffled in such an enterprise; and having 
entrapped a white-haired youth, in a black calico apron, from a 
library where she was known, to accompany her in her quest, she 
led him such a life in going up and down, that he exerted himself 
to the utmost, if it were only to get rid of her; and finally en- 
abled her to return home in triumph. 

With these treasures, then, after her own daily lessons were 
over, Florence sat down at night to track Paul's footsteps 
through the thorny ways of learning; and being possessed of a 
naturally quick and sound capacity, and taught by that most 
wonderful of masters, love, it was not long before she gained 
upon Paul's heels, and caught and passed him. 

, Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin; but many 
a night when they were all in bed, and when Miss Nipper, with her 
hair in papers and herself asleep in some uncomfortable attitude, 
reposed unconscious by her side ; and when the chinking ashes in 
the grate were cold and gray ; and when the candles were burnt 
down and guttering out; Florence tried so hard to be a substi- 
tute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and perseverance 
might have almost won her a free right to bear the name herself. 

And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as little 
Paul was sitting down as usual to "resume his studies," she sat 
down by his side, and showed him all that was so rough, made 
smooth, and all that was so dark, made clear and plain, before 
him. It was nothing but a startled look in Paul's wan face — a 
flush— a smile— and then a close embrace— but God knows how 
her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble. 

" Oh, Floy! '' cried her brother, '' how I love 3'ou! How I love 
you, Floy! " 

"And I you, dear! " 

" Oh, I am sure of that, Floy ! " 

He said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by 



CHARLES DICKENS. 337 

her, very quiet; and in the night he called out from his little 
room within hers, three or four times, that he loved her. 

Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down with 
Paul on Saturday night, and patiently assist him through so 
much as they could anticipate together of his next week's work. 
The cheering thought that he was laboring on where Florence 
had just toiled before him would, of itself, have been a stimulant 
to Paul in the perpetual resumption of his studies; but, coupled 
with the actual lightening of his load, consequent on this assist- 
ance, it saved him, possibly, from sinking underneath the burden 
which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled upon his back. 

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon him, 
or that Doctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young 
gentlemen in general. Cornelia merely held the faith in which she 
had been bred; and the Doctor, in some partial confusion of his 
ideas, regarded the young gentlemen as if they were all Doctors, 
and were born grown up. Comforted by the applause of the 
young gentlemen's nearest relations, and urged on by their blind 
vanity and ill-considered haste, it would have been strange if 
Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake, or trimmed his swell- 
ing sails to any other tack. 

Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made 
great progress, and was naturally clever, Mr. Dombey was more 
bent than ever on his being forced and crammed. In the case of 
Briggs, when Doctor Blimber reported that he did not make 
great progress yet, and was not naturally clever, Briggs senior 
was inexorable in the same purpose. In short, however high and 
false the temperature at which the Doctor kept his hot-house, the 
owners of the plants were always ready to lend a helping hand 
at the bellows, and to stir the fire. 

Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost, of course. 
But he retained all that was strange, and old, and thoughtful in 
his character; and, under circumstances so favorable to the 
development of these tendencies, became even more strange and 
old, and thoughtful than before. 

The only difference was, that he kept his character to himself. 

T. L.— 22 



338 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

He grew more thoughtful and reserved every day; and had no 
such curiosity in any living member of the Doctor's household 
as he had had in Mrs. Pipchin. He loved to be alone; and, in 
those short intervals when he was not occupied with his books, 
liked nothing so well as wandering about the house by himself, 
or sitting on the stairs, listening to the great clock in the hall. 
He was intimate with all the paper-hanging in the house; saw 
things that no one else saw in the patterns; found out min- 
iature tigers and lions running up the bedroom walls, and 
squinting faces leering in the squares and diamonds of the floor- 
.cloth. 

The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this arabesque work 
of his musing fancy, and no one understood him. Mrs. Blimber 
thought him "odd," and sometimes the servants said among 
themselves that little Dombey " moped; " but that was all. 

Unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to the 
expression of which he was wholly unequal. Ideas, like ghosts 
(according to the common notion of ghosts), must be spoken to 
a little before they will explain themselves; and Toots had long 
left off asking any questions of his own mind. Some mist there 
may have been, issuing from that leaden casket, his cranium, 
which, if it could have taken shape and form, would have become 
a genie; but it could not; and it only so far followed the example 
of the smoke in the Arabian story as to roll out in a thick cloud, 
and there hang and hover. But it left a little figure visible upon 
a lonely shore, and Toots was always staring at it. 

"How are you? " he would say to Paul fifty times a day. 

" Quite well, sir, thank you," Paul would answer. 

" Shake hands," would be Toot's next advance. 

Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr. Toots 
generally said again, after a long interval of staring and hard 
breathing, "How are you?" To which Paul again replied, 
" Quite well, sir, thank you." 

One evening Mr. Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed by 
correspondence, when a great purpose seemed to flash upon him. 
He laid down his pen, and went off to seek Paul, whom he found 



CHARLES DICKENS. 339 

at last, after a long search, looking through the window of his 
little bedroom. 

" I say ! " cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered the 
room, lest he should forget it; "what do you think about? " 

" Oh ! I think about a great many things," replied Paul. 

"Do you, though?" said Toots, appearing to consider that 
fact in itself surprising. 

" If you had to die—" said Paul, looking up into his face. 

Mr. Toots started and seemed much disturbed. 

" — Don't you think you would rather die on a moonlight 
night, when the sky was quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it 
did last night?" 

Mr. Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking his 
head, that he didn't know about that. 

"Not blowing, at least," said Paul, " but sounding in the air 
like the sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. 
When I had listened to the water for a long time, I got up and 
looked out. There was a boat over there, in the full light of the 
moon ; a boat with a sail." 

The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so earnestly 
that Mr. Toots, feeling himself called upon to say something 
about this boat, said, "Smugglers." But, with an impartial 
remembrance of there being two sides to every question, he 
added, "or Preventive." 

"A boat with a sail," repeated Paul, "in the full light of the 
moon. The sail like an arm, all silver. It went away into the 
distance, and what do you think it seemed to do as it moved 
with the waves ? ' ' 

"Pitch," said Mr. Toots. 

"It seemed to beckon," said the child, "to beckon me to 
come ! There she is ! There she is ! " 

Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden 
exclamation, after what had gone before, and cried, " Who? " 

"My sister Florence!" cried Paul, "looking up here, and 
waving her hand. She sees me— she sees me! Good-night, dear, 
good-night, good-night! 



340 TEE TEACEER IN LITERATURE. 

His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as he 
stood at his window, kissing and clapping his hands, and the 
way in which the light retreated from his features as she passed 
out of his view, and left a patient melancholy on the little face, 
were too remarkable wholly to escape even Toots's notice. Their 
interview being interrupted at this moment by a visit from 
Mrs. Pipchin, who usually brought her black skirts to bear 
upon Paul just before dusk, once or twice a week, Toots had no 
opportunity of improving the occasion; but it left so marked 
an impression on his mind, that he twice returned, after having 
exchanged the usual salutations, to ask Mrs. Pipchin how she 
did. This the irascible old lady conceived to be a deeply-devised 
and long-meditated insult, originating in the diabolical invention 
of the weak-eyed young man down-stairs, against whom she 
accordingly lodged a formal complaint with Dr. Blimber that 
very night; who mentioned to the young man that if he ever 
did it again, he should be obliged to part with him. 

The evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to his window 
every evening to look out for Florence. She always passed and 
repassed at a certain time until she saw him; and their mutual 
recognition was a gleam of sunshine in Paul's daily life. Often 
after dark, one other figure walked alone before the Doctor's 
house. He rarely joined them on the Saturday now. He could 
not bear it. He would rather come unrecognized, and look up 
at the windows where his son was qualifying for a man; and 
wait, and watch, and plan, and hope. 

Oh! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the slight, 
spare boy above, watching the waves and clouds at twilight 
with his earnest eyes, and breasting the window of his solitary 
cage when birds flew by, as if he would have emulated them, and 
soared away! 

When the midsummer vacation approached, no indecent mani- 
festations of joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentle- 
men assembled at Doctor Blimber 's. Any such violent expression 
as '< breaking up" would have been quite inapplicable to that 



CHARLES DICKENS. 341 

polite establishment. The young gentlemen oozed away, semi- 
annually, to their own homes; but they never broke up. They 
would have scorned the action. 

They were within two or three weeks of the holidays, when, 
one day, Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her room, and said, 
''Dombey, I am going to send home your analysis." 

''Thank you, ma'am," returned Paul. 

"You know what I mean, do you, Dombey ? " inquired Miss 
Blimber, looking hard at him through the spectacles. 

" No, ma'am," said Paul. 

"Dombey, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, "I begin to be afraid 
you are a sad boy. When you don't know the meaning of an 
expression, why don't you seek for information? " 

"Mrs. Pipchin told me I wasn't to ask questions," returned 
Paul. 

"I must beg you not to mention Mrs. Pipchin to me on any 
account, Dombey," returned Miss Blimber. "I couldn't think of 
allowing it. The course of study here is very far removed from 
anything of that sort. A repetition of such allusions would 
make it necessary for me to request to hear without a mistake, 
before breakfast-time to-morrow morning, from Verbum person- 
ale down to similUma cygnoJ^ 

"I didn't mean, ma'am—" began little Paul. 

"I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn't mean, if 
you please, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, who preserved an awful 
politeness in her admonitions. "That is a line of argument I 
couldn't dream of permitting." 

Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only looked at 
Miss Blimber 's spectacles. Miss Blimber, having' shaken her head 
at him gravely, referred to a paper lying before her. 

" 'Analysis of the character of P. Dombey.' If my recollection 
serves me," said Miss Blimber, breaking off, "the word analysis, 
as opposed to synthesis, is thus defined by Walker: ' The resolu- 
tion of an object, whether of the senses or of the intellect, into 



342 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

its first elements.' As opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now 
you know what analysis is, Dombey." 

Dombey didn't seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in 
upon his intellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow. 

'* 'Analysis,'" resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye over the 
paper, '< ' of the character of P. Dombey. I find that the natural 
capacity of Dombey is extremely good : and that his general dis- 
position to study may be stated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking 
eight as our standard and highest number, I find these qualities 
in Dombey stated at six three-fourths ! '" 

Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. Being 
undecided whether six three-fourths meant six pounds fifteen, or 
sixpence three farthings, or six foot three, or three-quarters past 
six, or six somethings that he hadn't learnt yet, with three un- 
known something else's over, Paul rubbed his hands and looked 
straight at Miss Blimber. It happened to answer as well as any- 
thing else he could have done; and Cornelia proceeded : 

" ' Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low company, 
as evinced in the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, 
but since reduced. Gentlemanly demeanor four, and improving 
with advancing years.' Now, what I particularly wish to call 
your attention to, Dombey, is the general observation at the 
close of this analysis." 

Paul set himself to follow it with great care. 

"'It may be generally observed of Dombey,'" said Miss 
Blimber, reading in a loud voice, and at every second word 
directing her spectacles toward the figure before her : " ' that his 
abilities and inclinations are good, and that he has made as 
much progress as under the circumstances could have been 
expected. But it is to be lamented of this young gentleman 
that he is singular (what is usually termed old-fashioned) in his 
character and conduct, and that, without presenting anything 
in either which distinctly calls for reprobation, he is often very 
unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social position.' 
Now, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, laying down the paper, "do 
you understand that ? " 



CHARLES DICKENS. 343 

'' I think I do, ma'am," said Paul. 

"This analysis, you see, Dombey," Miss Blimber continued, 
''is going to be sent home to your respected parent. It will 
naturally be very painful to him to find that you are singular in 
your character and conduct. It is naturally painful to us ; for 
we can^t like you, you know, Dombey, as well as we could wish." 

She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly 
become more and more solicitous from day to day, as the time 
of his departure drew more near, that all the house should like 
him. For some hidden reason, very imperfectly understood by 
himself— if understood at all — he felt a gradually increasing 
impulse of affection toward almost everything and everybody 
in the place. He could not bear to think that they would be 
quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He wanted them 
to remember him kindly; and he had made it his business even 
to conciliate a great, hoarse, shaggy dog, chained up at the back 
of the house, who had previously been the terror of his life, that 
even he might miss him when he was no longer there. 

Little thinking that in this he only showed again the difference 
between himself and his compeers, poor tiny Paul set it forth to 
Miss Blimber as well as he could, and begged her, in despite of 
the olficial analysis, to have the goodness to try and like him. 
To Mrs. Blimber, who had joined them, he preferred the same 
petition; and when that lady could not forbear, even in his pres- 
ence, from giving utterance to her often-repeated opinion, that 
he was an odd child, Paul told her that he was sure she was quite 
right; that he thought it must be his bones, but he didn't know; 
and that he hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond of them 
all. 

"Not so fond," said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and 
perfect frankness, which was one of the most peculiar and most 
engaging qualities of the child, '^ not so fond as I am of Florence, 
of course; that could never be. You couldn't expect that, could 
you, ma'am?" 

"Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!" cried Mrs. Blimber in a 
whisper. 



344 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"■ But I like everybody here very much," pursued Paul, ''and I 
should grieve to go away, and think that anyone was glad 
that I was gone, or didn't care." 

Mrs. Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest 
child in the world; and when she told the Doctor what had 
passed, the Doctor did not controvert his wife's opinion. But 
he said, as he had said before, when Paul first came, that study 
would do much; and he also said, as he had said on that occa- 
sion, " Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on ! " 

Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she 
could ; and Paul had had a hard life of it. But over and above 
the getting through his tasks, he had long had another purpose 
always present to him, and to which he still held fast. It was, to 
be a gentle, useful, quiet little fellow, always striving to secure 
the love and attachment of the rest; and though he was yet 
often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or watching the 
waves and clouds from his solitary window, he was oftener found, 
too, among the other boys, modestly rendering them some little 
voluntary service. Thus it came to pass that, even among those 
rigid and absorbed young anchorites who mortified themselves 
beneath the roof of Doctor Blimber, Paul was an object of 
general interest; a fragile little plaything that they all liked, 
and that no one would have thought of treating roughly. But 
he could not change his nature, or rewrite the analysis; and so 
they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned. 

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listen- 
ing to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much 
how the time went, but watching it and watching everything 
about him, with observing eyes. 

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling 
blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he 
knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and 
beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creep- 
ing up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. 
Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, 



CHARLES DICKENS. 345 

and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy 
had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he kneAV 
was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how 
black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of 
stars — and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet 
the sea. 

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street 
became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as 
they paused, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie 
and watch the many-colored ring about the candle, and wait 
patiently for day. His only trouble was the swift and rapid 
river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem it 
with his childish hands — or choke its way with sand— and when 
he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out. But a word from 
Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; 
and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his 
dream, and smiled. 

When day began to dawn a^ain, he watched for the sun; and 
when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured 
to himself — pictured! he saw — the high church tower rising up 
into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into 
life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast 
as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and 
cries came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the 
house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at the door, and 
voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always 
answered for himself, "I am better. I am a great deal better, 
thank you! Tell papa so ! " 

By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the 
noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing; 
and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy 
sense again— the child could hardly tell whether this were in his 
sleeping or his waking moments — of that rushing river. '' Why, 
will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. ''It is 
bearing me away, I think ! " 

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was 



346 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, 
and take some rest. 

"You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, 
now!" 

They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, 
and there he would recline the while she lay beside him, bending 
forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were 
near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights 
beside him. 

Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradu- 
ally decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on 
the wall. 

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors — they used 
to assemble down-stairs, and come up together— and the room 
was so quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he 
never asked of anybody what they said), that he even knew the 
difference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centered 
in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the 
bed. For Paul had heard them say, long ago, that that gentle- 
man had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her 
arms, and died. And he could not forget it, now. He liked him 
for it. He was not afraid. 

The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that 
first night at Doctor Blimber's — except Florence; Florence never 
changed— and what had been Sir Parker Peps was now his father, 
sitting with his head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin, dozing 
in an easy-chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or his aunt; and 
Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what hap- 
pened next without emotion. But this figure with its head upon 
its hand returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still 
and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely 
lifting up its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly if it were 
real ; and in the night-time saw it sitting there with fear. 

" Floy ! " he said. " What is that ? " 

"Where, dearest?" 

" There! at the bottom of the bed." 



CHARLES DICKENS. 347 

" There's nothing there, except papa ! " 

The figure hfted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bed- 
side, said: "My own boy! Don't you know me?" 

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father? 
But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, 
as if it were in pain; and before he could reach out both his 
hands to take it between them, and draw it toward him, the 
figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at 
the door. 

Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew 
what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against 
her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the 
bottom of the bed, he called to it. 

"Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa! Indeed, I am quite 
happy ! ' ' 

His father coming, and bending down to him — which he did 
quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside — Paul held 
him round the neck, and repeated those words to him several 
times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him in his room 
again at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called 
out, "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!" 
This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning 
that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his 
father so. 

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; 
how many nights the dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in 
spite of him; Paul never counted, never sought to know. If 
their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were 
more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they 
were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the 
gentle boy. 

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture 
in the drawing-room down-stairs, and had thought she must 
have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have 
held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying — for even 
he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no 



348 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him 
to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remem- 
ber whether they had told him yes or no, the river running very 
fast, and confusing his mind. 

"Floy, did I ever see mamma?" 

"No, darling: why?" 

"Did I never see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me 
when I was a baby, Floy ? " 

He asked incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face 
before him. 

"Oh yes, dear!" 

"Whose, Floy?" 

" Your old nurse's. Often." 

"And where is my old nurse? " said Paul. "Is she dead too? 
Floy, are we all dead, except you? " 

There was a hurry in the room for an instant— longer, per- 
haps; but it seemed no more — then all was still again; and 
Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head 
upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. 

"Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please! " 

" She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." 

"Thank you, Floy!" 

Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When 
he awoke the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and 
warm. He lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, 
and the curtains, rustling in the air, and waving to and fro; then 
he said, " Floy, is it to-morrow? Is she come? " 

Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. 
Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he had closed his 
eyes again, that she would soon be back; but he did not open 
them to see. She kept her word — perhaps she had never been 
away — but the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps 
on the stairs, and then Paul woke — woke, mind and body— and 
sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was 
no gray mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the 
night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 349 

<'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, 
regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. 

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at 
sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her 
own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped 
down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her 
lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other 
woman would so have forgotten everybody there but him and 
Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. 

" Floy ! this a kind, good face ! " said Paul. "I am glad to see 
it again. Don't go away old nurse ! Stay here ! " 

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew. 

" Who was that who said ' Walter? ' " he asked, looking round. 
'' Some one said ' Walter.' Is he here? I should like to see him 
very much.'" 

Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, 
''Call him back, then : let him come up ! " After a short pause of 
expectation, during which he looked with smiling interest and 
wonder on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, 
Walter was brought into the room. His open face and manner, 
and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite with Paul; 
and when Paul saw him, he stretched out his hand, and said, 
''Good-by!" 

" Good-by, my child ! " cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrjing to his bed's 
head. " Not good-by? " 

For an instant Paul looked at her with the wistful face with 
which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. 
"Ah, yes," he said placidly, "good-by! Walter dear, good-by ! " — 
turning his head to where he stood, and putting out his hand 
again. " Where is papa ? " 

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek before the words had 
parted from his lips. 

"Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, looking in his 
face. "Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter." The feeble 
hand waved in the air as if it cried "Good-by ! " to Walter once 
again. 



350 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"Now lay me down," he said, "and, Floy, come close to me, 
and let me see you ! " 

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and 
the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked 
together. 

"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the 
rushes, Floy ! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves ! They 
always said so." . • 

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the 
stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, 
how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes ! 
Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now 
there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank? 

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his 
prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him 
fold them so, behind her neck. 

" Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! But tell 
them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. 
The light about the head is shining on me as I go ! " 

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing 
else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that 
came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until 
our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up 
like a scroll. The old, old fashion — Death! 

Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of 
Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with 
regards not quite estranged when the swift river bears us to the 
ocean ! 

Dotheboys Hall. 

V (From "Nicholas Nickleby.") 

"Are you cold, Nickleby?" inquired Squeers, after they had 
traveled some distance in silence. 

"Rather, sir, I must say." 

" Well, I don't find fault with that," said Squeers; "it's a long 
journey this weather." 



CHARLES DICKENS. 351 

"Is it much further to Dotheboys Hall, sir," asked Nicholas. 

"About three miles from here," replied Squeers. "But you 
needn't call it a Hall down here." 

Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why. 

" The fact is, it ain't a Hall," observed Squeers, dryly. 

"Oh, indeed!" said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligence 
much astonished. 

"No," replied Squeers. "We call it a Hall up in London, be- 
cause it sounds better, but they don't know it by that name in 
these parts. A man may call his house an island if he likes; 
there is no act of Parliament against that, I believe." 

" I believe not, sir," rejoined Nicholas. 

Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this 
little dialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and 
appeared in nowise disposed to volunteer any observations, con- 
tented himself with lashing the pony until they reached their 
journey's end. 

" Jump out," said Squeers. " Hallo therel come and put this 
horse up. Be quick, will you? " 

While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impa- 
tient cries, Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a 
loDg, cold-looking house, one story high, with a few straggling 
out-buildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After 
the lapse of a minute or two, the noise of somebody unlocking 
the yard-gate was heard, and presently a tall lean boy, with a 
lantern in his hand, issued forth. 

"Is that you, Smike?" cried Squeers. 

"Yes, sir," replied the boy. 

" Then why the devil didn't you come before? " 

"Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire," answered Smike with 
humility. 

"Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?" demanded the 
schoolmaster, sharply. 

"Only in the kitchen sir," replied the boy. " Missus said as I 
was sitting up, I might go in there for a warm." 



352 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

''Your Missus is a fool," retorted Squeers. "You'd have been 
a deuced deal more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage." 

By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering 
the boy to see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn't any 
more corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front door 
a minute while he went round and let him in. 

A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding 
upon Nicholas during the whole journey, thronged upon his 
mind with redoubled force when he was left alone. His great 
distance from home and the impossibility of reaching it, except 
on foot, should he feel ever so anxious to return, presented itself 
to him in the most alarming colors; and as he looked up at the 
dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild country 
round, covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and 
spirit which he had never experienced before. 

. A ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather is one 
of the best softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise. 
Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered 
over the rough couch of Nicholas, and whispered their airy noth- 
ings in his ear, were of an agreeable and happy kind. He was 
making his fortune very fast indeed, when the faint glimmer of 
an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and a voice he had no 
difficulty in recognizing as part and parcel of Mr. Squeers, 
admonished him that it was time to rise. 

"Past seven, Nickleby," said Mr. Squeers. 

" Has morning come already?" asked Nicholas, sitting up in bed. 

"Ah! that has it," replied Squeers, "and ready iced too. 
Now, Nickleby, come ! tumble up, will you? " 

Nicholas needed no further admonition, but "tumbled up" at 
once, and proceeded to dress himself by the light of the taper 
which Mr. Squeers carried in his hand. 

"Here's a pretty go," said that gentleman; "the pump's 
froze." 

"Indeed !" said Nicholas, not much interested in the intelli- 
gence. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 353 

''Yes," replied Squeers. "You can't wash yourself this 
morning." 

"Not wash myself ! " exclaimed Nicholas. 

"No, not a bit of it," rejoined Squeers, tartly. " So you must 
be content with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the 
ice in the well and can get a bucketful out for the boys. Don't 
stand staring at me, but do look sharp, will you?" 

Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his 
clothes. Squeers, meanwhile, opened the shutters and blew the 
candle out; when the voice of his amiable consort was heard in 
the passage, demanding admittance. 

" Come in, my love," said Squeers. 

Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night- 
jacket which had displayed the symmetry of her figure on the 
previous night, and further ornamented with a beaver bonnet 
of some antiquity, which she wore, with much ease and lightness, 
on the top of the nightcap before mentioned. 

"Drat the things," said the lady, opening the cupboard : "I 
can't find the school-spoon anywhere." 

"Never mind it, my dear," observed Squeers in a soothing 
manner ; "it's of no consequence." 

"No consequence, why, how you talk!" retorted Mrs. 
Squeers, sharply; "isn't it brimstone morning?" 

"I forgot, my dear," rejoined Squeers; "yes, it certainly is. 
We purify the boys' blood now and then, Nickleby." 

"Purify fiddlesticks' ends," said his lady. "Don't think, 
young man, that we go to the expense of flower of brimstone 
and molasses, just to purify them ; because if you think we 
carry on the business in that way, you'll find yourself mistaken, 
and so I tell you plainly." 

" My dear," said Squeers, frowning. " Hem ! " 

"Oh! nonsense," rejoined Mrs. Squeers. "If the young man 
comes to be a teacher here, let him understand at once that we 
don't want any foolery about the boys. They have the brim- 
stone and treacle, partly because if they hadn't something or 
other in the way of medicine they'd be always ailing and giving 

T. L.— 23 



354 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their appetites 
and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So it does them 
good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough, I'm 
sure." 

Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put her hand 
into the closet and instituted a stricter search after the spoon, in 
which Mr. Squeers assisted. A few words passed between them 
while they were thus engaged, but as their voices were partially 
stifled by the cupboard, all that Nicholas could distinguish was 
that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers had said was inju- 
.dicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what Mr. Squeers said was 
^' stuff." 

A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and, it 
proving fruitless, Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. 
Squeers, and boxed by Mr. Squeers ; which course of treatment, 
brightening his intellects, enabled him to suggest that possibly 
Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket, as indeed 
turned out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had previously pro- 
tested, however, that she was quite certain she had not got it, 
Smike received another box on the ear for presuming to contra- 
dict his mistress, together with a promise of a sound thrashing 
if he were not more respectful in future ; so that he took nothing 
very advantageous by his motion. 

"A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleb}^," said Squeers, 
w^hen his consort had hurried away, pushing the drudge before 
her. 

"Indeed, sir !" observed Nicholas. 

"I don't know her equal," said Squeers; ''I do not know her 
equal. That woman, Niekleby, is always the same — always the 
same bustling, lively, active, saving creetur that you see her 
now." 

Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable 
domestic prospect thus opened to him; but Squeers was, fortu- 
nately, too much occupied with his own reflections to perceive 
it. 

''It's my way to say when I'm up in London," continued 



CHARLES DICKENS. 355 

Squeers, "that to them boys she is a mother. But she is more 
than a mother to them; ten times more. She does things for 
them boys, Niekleby, that I don't believe half the mothers going 
would do for their own sons." 

''I should think they would not, sir," answered Nicholas. 

Now, the fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers viewed the 
boys in the light of their proper and natural enemies; or, in other 
words, they held and considered that their business and profes- 
sion was to get as much from every boy as could by possibility 
be screwed out of him. On this point they were both agreed, and 
behaved in unison accordingly. The only difference between 
them was, that Mrs. Squeers waged w^ar against the enemy openly 
and fearlessly, and that Squeers covered his rascality, even at 
home, with a spice of his habitual deceit; as if he really had a 
notion of some day or other being able to take himself in, and 
persuade his own mind that he was a very good fellow. 

"But come," said Squeers, interrupting the progress of some 
thougths to this effect in the mind of his usher, "let's go into 
the schoolroom ; and lend me a^ hand with my school-coat, will 
you?" 

Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shooting- 
jacket, which he took down from a peg in the passage; and 
Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way across a yard, 
to a door in the rear of the house. 

"There," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together, 
"this is our shop, Niekleby! " 

It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to 
attract attention, that at first Nicholas stared about him, really 
without seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place 
resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of win- 
dows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the remainder be- 
ing stopped up with old copybooks and paper. There were a 
couple of long old rickety desks, cut and notched, and inked, and 
damaged in every possible way; two or three forms; a detached 
desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was 
supported, like that of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters; and 



356 . THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

the walls were so stained and discol(3red, that it was impossible 
to tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or white- 
wash. 

But the pupils — the young noblemen! How the last faint 
traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be de- 
rived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas 
as he looked in dismay around! Pale and haggard faces, lank 
and bony figures, children with the countenances of old men, de- 
formities with irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted growth, 
and others whose long meager legs would hardly bear their 
stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together; there were the 
bleared eye, the hare lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness or 
distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents 
for their offspring, or of young hves which, from the earliest 
dawn of infancy, had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and 
neglect. There were little faces which should have been hand- 
some, darJiened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering; there 
was childhood with the light of its ej^e quenched, its beauty gone, 
and its helplessness alone remaining; there were vicious-faced 
boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail; and 
there were young creatures on whom the sins of their frail 
parents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary nurses 
they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With 
every kindly sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with 
every young and healthy feeling flogged and starved down, with 
every revengeful passion that can fester in swollen hearts, eating 
its evil way to their core in silence, what an incipient Hell was 
breeding here! 

And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features, 
which, in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have 
provoked a smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, pre- 
siding over an immense basin of brimstone and treacle, of which 
delicious compound she administered a large installment to each 
boy in succession, using for the purpose a common wooden spoon, 
which might have been originally manufactured for some gigan- 
tic top, and which widened every young gentleman's mouth con- 



CHARLES DICKENS. 357 

siderably; they being all obliged, under heavy corporal penalties, 
to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In another corner, 
huddled together for companionship, were the little boys who had 
arrived on the preceding night, three of them in very large 
leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a somewhat tighter 
fit than drawers are usually worn; at no great distance from 
these was seated a juvenile son and heir of Mr. Squeers — a strik- 
ing likeness of his father — kicking w4th great vigor under the 
hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots 
that bore almost suspicious resemblance to those which the 
least of the little boys had worn on the journey down — as the 
little boy himself seemed to think, for he was regarding the 
appropriation with a look of most rueful amazement. Besides 
these, there was a long row of boys waiting, with countenances 
of no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled; and another file, 
who had just escaped from the infliction, making a variety of 
wry mouths, indicative of anything but satisfaction. The whole 
were attired in such motley, ill-sorted, extraordinary garments, 
as would have been irresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul 
appearance of dirt, disorder, and disease, with w^hich they were 
associated. 

''Now," said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his 
cane, which made half the little boys nearly jump out of their 
boots, "is that physicking over? " 

'•Just over," said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her 
hurry, and tapping the crown of his head with the wooden 
spoon to restore him. " Here, you Smike; take this away now. 
Look sharp ! " 

Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers, having 
called up a little boy with a curly head and wiped her hands 
upon it, hurried out after him into a species of wash-house, 
where there was a small fire and a large kettle, together with 
a number of little wooden bowls which were arranged upon a 
board. 

Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers assisted by the hungry servant, 
poured a brown composition, which looked like diluted pin- 



358 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

cushions without the covers, and was called porridge. A minute 
wedge of brown bread was inserted in each bowl, and when they 
had eaten the porridge by means of the bread, the boys ate the 
bread itself, and had finished their breakfast; whereupon Mr. 
Squeers said, in a solemn voice: "For what we have received, 
may the Lord make us truly thankful ! " — and went away to his 
own. 

Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for 
much the same reason which induces some savages to swallow 
earth — lest they should be inconveniently hungry when there is 
nothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread and 
butter, allotted to him in virtue of his office, he sat himself down 
to wait for school time. 

He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all 
seemed to be. There was none of the noise and clamor of a 
schoolroom; none of its boisterous play or hearty mirth. The 
children sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed to 
lack the spirit to move about. The only pupil who evinced the 
slightest tendency toward locomotion or playfulness was Master 
Squeers, and as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other 
boys' toes, in his new boots, his flow of spirits was rather dis- 
agreeable than otherwise. 

After some half hour's delay, Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the 
boys took their places and their books, of which latter com- 
modity the average might be about one to eight learners. A few 
minutes having elapsed, during which Mr. Squeers looked very 
profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of what was inside 
all the books, and could say every word of their contents by 
heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman called 
up the first class. 

Obedient to this summons, there ranged themselves in front of 
the schoolmaster's desk half a dozen scarecrows, out at knees 
and elbows, one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath 
his learned eye. 

"This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, 
Mckleby,"said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 359 

We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to yon. Now, then, 
Where's the first boy? " 

"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window," said the 
temporary head of the philosophical class. 

" So he is, to be sure," rejoined Squeers. "We go upon the 
practical mode of teaching, Nickleby; the regular education 
system. C-1-e-a-n, verb active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, 
win, d-e-r, winder, a casement. When the boy knows this out of 
book, he goes and does ifc. It's just the same principle as the use 
of the globes. Where's the second boy ? " 

" Please, sir, he's weeding the garden," replied a small voice. 

"To be sure," said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. "So 
he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun sub- 
stantive, a knowledge of plants. When he has learned that 
bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. 
That's our system, Nickleby; what do you think of it?" 

<'It's a very useful one, at any rate," answered Nicholas. 

"I believe you," rejoined Squeers, not remarkingthe emphasis 
of his usher. " Third boy, what's a horse? " 

"A beast, sir," replied the boy. 

" So it is," said Squeers. "Ain't it, Nickleby? " 

"I believe there is no doubt of that, sir," answered Nicholas. 

"Of course there isn't," said Squeers. "A horse is a quad- 
ruped, and quadruped's Latin for beasts, as everybody that's 
gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use of hav- 
ing grammars at all ? " 

"Where, indeed ! " said Nicholas, abstractedly. 

"As you are perfect in that," resumed Squeers, turning to the 
boy, "go and look after my horse, and rub him down well, or 
I'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up, 
till somebody tells you to leave off, for its washing-day to-mor- 
row, and they want the coppers filled." 

So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in 
practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cun- 
ning and half doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what 
he might think of him by this time. 



360 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"That's the way we do it, Nickleby," he said, after a pause. 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely 
perceptible, and said he saw it was. 

"And a very good way it is, too," said Squeers. "Now, just 
take them fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, 
because, you know, you must begin to be useful. Idling about 
here won't do." 

Mr. Squeers said this, as if it suddenly occurred to him either 
that he must not say too much to his assistant or that his as- 
sistant did not say enough to him in praise of the establishment. 
The children were arranged in a semicircle round their new 
master, and he was soon listening to their dull, drawling, hesi- 
tating recital of those stories of engrossing interest which are to 
be found in the more antiquated spelling-books. 

In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. 
At one o'clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites 
thoroughly taken away by stirabout and potatoes, sat down in 
the kitchen to some hard salt beef, of which Nicholas was gra- 
ciously permitted to take his portion to his own solitary desk, 
to eat it there in peace. After this, there was another hour of 
crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with cold, and then 
school began again. 

It was Mr. Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and 
make a sort of report, after every half yearly visit to the metropo- 
lis, regarding the relations and friends he had seen, the news he 
had heard, the letters he had brought down, the bills which had 
been paid, the accounts which had been left unpaid, and so forth. 
This solemn proceeding always took place in the afternoon of the 
day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the boys acquired 
strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or, possibly, 
because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater sternness and inflexi- 
bility from certain warm potations in which he was wont to 
indulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were 
recalled from house-window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and 
the school were assembled in full conclave, when Mr. Squeers, 



CHARLES DICKENS. 361 

with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and Mrs. S. follow- 
ing with a pair of canes, entered the room and proclaimed 
silence. 

" Let any boy speak a word without leave," said Mr. Squeers, 
mildly, " and I'll take the skin off his back." 

This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a death- 
like silence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which Mr. 
Squeers went on to say : 

'• Bo3^s, I have been to London, and have returned to my 
family and you, as strong and well as ever." 

According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble 
cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of 
extra strength with the chill on. 

<'I have seen the parents of some boys," continued Squeers, 
turning over his papers, " and they're so glad to hear how their 
sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their going 
away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon, 
for all parties." 

Two or three hands went to tw^o or three eyes when Squeers 
said this, but the greater part of the j^oung gentlemen having 
no particular parents to speak of, were wholly uninterested in 
the thing one way or the other. 

"I have had disappointments to contend against," said 
Squeers, looking very grim; " Bolder's father was two pound 
ten short. Where is Bolder ? " 

'' Here he is, please sir," rejoined twenty officious voices. Boys 
are very like men to be sure. 

''Come here, Bolder," said Squeers. 

An unhealthy looking boy, with warts all over his hands, 
stepped from his place to the master's desk, and raised his eyes 
imploringly to Squeer's face; his own, quite white from the rapid 
beating of his heart. 

"Bolder," says Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was con- 
sidering, as the saying goes, where to have him. "Bolder, if 
your father thinks that because — why, w'hat's this, sir?" 

As Squeers spoke he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of 



362 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

his jacket, and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror 
and disgust. 

"What do you call this, sir?" demanded the schoolmaster, 
administering a cut with the cane to expedite the reply. 

"I can't help it, indeed, sir," rejoined the boy, crying. "They 
will come; it's the dirty work, 1 think, sir— at least I don't 
know what it is, sir, but it's not my fault." 

" Bolder, " said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, and 
moistening the palm of his right hand to get a good grip of the 
cane, "you are an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last 
thrashing did you no good w^e must see what another will do 
toward beating it out of you." 

With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, 
Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leav- 
ing off, indeed, until his arm was tired out. 

"There," said Squeers, when he had quite done; "rub away as 
hard as you like you won't rub that off in a hurry. Oh ! you 
won't hold that noise, won't you? Put him out Smike." 

The drudge knew better, from long experience, than to hesitate 
about obeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side door, and 
Mr. Squeers perched himself again on his own stool, supported 
by Mrs. Squeers, who occupied another at his side. 

" Now let us see," said Squeers. " A letter for Cobbey. Stand 
up, Cobbey." 

Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while 
Squeers made a mental abstract of the same. 

"Oh! " said Squeers; "Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his 
uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister 
sends, except eighteenpence, which will just pay for that broken 
square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the 
money? " 

The worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a most 
business-like air, and Squeers passed on to the next boy, as coolly 
as possible. 

" Graymarsh," said Squeers, " he's the next. Stand up, Gray- 
marsh." 



CHARLES DICKENS. 363 

Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over the 
letter as before. 

" Graymarsh's maternal aunt," said Squeers, when he had pos- 
sessed himself of the contents, " is very glad to hear he's so well 
and happy, and sends her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers, 
and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks Mr. Squeers 
is too good for this world; but hopes he may long be spared to 
carry on the business. Would have sent the two pair of stock- 
ings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract in- 
stead, and hopes Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence. 
Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please Mr. 
and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and 
that he will love Master Squeers ; and not object to sleeping five 
in a bed, which no Christian should . Ah ! " said Squeers, folding it 
up, " a delightful letter. Very affecting indeed." 

It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh's maternal aunt 
was strongly supposed, by her more intimate friends, to be no 
other than his maternal parent; Squeers, however, without al- 
luding to this part of the story (which would have sounded im- 
moral before boys), proceeded with the business by calling out 
''Mobbs," whereupon another boy rose, and Graymarsh resumed 
his seat. * 

"Mobbs's mother-in-law," said Squeers, "took to her bed on 
hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. 
She wishes to know by an early post, where he expects to go to if 
he quarrels with his vittles ; and with what feelings he could turn 
up his nose at the cow's liver broth, after his good master had 
asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the London news- 
papers—not by Mr. Squeers, for he is too kind and too good to 
set anybody against anybody — and it has vexed her so much, 
Mobbs can't think. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which 
is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a 
happier state of mind ; with this view, she has also stopped his 
half penny a week pocket money, and given a double-bladed knife 
with a corkscrew in it to the Missionaries, which she had bought 
on purpose for him . " 



364 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"A sulky state of feeliDg," said Squeers after a terrible pause, 
during which he had moistened the palm of his right hand 
again, "won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept 
up. Mobbs, come to me! " 

Mobbs moved slowly toward the desk, rubbing his eyes in 
anticipation of good cause for doing so ; and he soon afterward 
retired by the side door, with as good cause as a boy need have. 

Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collection 
of letters ; some inclosing money, which Mrs. Squeers "took care 
of; " and others referring to small articles of apparel, as caps 
and so forth, all of which the same lady stated to be too large, 
or too small, and calculated for nobody but young Squeers, who 
would appear indeed to have had most accommodating limbs, 
since everything that came into the school fitted him to a 
nicety. His head, in particular, must have been singularly 
elastic, for hats and caps of all dimensions were alike to him. 

The business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were per- 
formed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to 
take care of the boys in the schoolroom, which was very cold, 
and where a meal of bread and cheese was served out shortly 
after dark. 

There was a small stove at that corner of the room which 
was nearest to the master's desk, and by it JS^icholas sat down, 
so depressed and self-degraded by the consciousness of his posi- 
tion, that if death could have come upon him at that time, he 
would have been almost happy to meet it. The cruelty of which 
he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse and ruffianly be- 
havior of Squeers, even in his best moods, the filthy place, the 
sights and sounds about him, all contributed to this state of 
feeling; but when he recollected that, being there as an assistant, 
he actually seemed — no matter what unhappy train of circum- 
stances had brought him to that pass — to be the aider and 
abettor of a system which filled him with honest disgust and 
indignation, he loathed himself, and felt, for the moment, as 
though the mere consciousness of his present situation must, 
through all time to come, prevent his raising his head again. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 365 

But, for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolution 
he had formed on the preceding night remained undisturbed. 
He had written to his mother and sister, announcing the safe 
conclusion of his journey, and saying as little about Dothe- 
boys Hall, and saying that little as cheerfully, as he possibly 
could. He hoped that by remaining where he was, he might 
do some good, even there; at all events, others depended too 
much on his uncle's favor, to admit his awakening his wrath 
just then. 

One reflection disturbed him far more than any selfish consid- 
eration ai'ising out of his own position. This was the probable 
destination of his sister Kate. His uncle had deceived him, and 
might he not consign her to some miserable place where her 
youth and beauty would prove a far greater curse than ugliness 
and decrepitude? To a caged man, bound hand and foot, this 
was a terrible idea ; but no, he thought, his mother was by; there 
was the portrait-painter, too — simple enough, but still living in 
the world and of it. He was willing to believe that Ralph Nickle- 
by had conceived a personal dislike to himself. Having pretty 
good reason, by this time, to reciprocate it, he had no difficulty 
in arriving at this conclusion, and tried to persuade himself that 
the feeling extended no further than between them. 

As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once 
encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees 
before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth and 
planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at 
Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrunk back as 
if expecting a blow. 

"You need not fear me," said Nicholas kindly. "Are you 
cold?" 

"N-n-o." 

"You are shivering." 

"lam not cold," replied Smike, quickly. "I am used to it." 

There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his 
manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that 
Nicholas could not help exclaiming, " Poor fellow ! " 



366 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away with- 
out a word. But now he burst into tears. 

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" he cried, covering his face with his 
cracked and horny hands. "My heart will break. It will, it 
will!" 

"Hush!" said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his vshoulder. 
"be a man; you are nearly one by years, God help you ! " 

"By years!" cried Smike. "Oh, dear, dear, how many of 
them! How many of them since I was a little child, younger 
than any that are here now ! Where are they all ? " 

"Whom do you speak of?" inquired Nicholas, wishing to 
rouse the poor half-witted creature to reason. "Tell me." 

"My friends," he replied, "myself — my — oh! what sufferings 
mine have been! " 

"There is always hope," said Nicholas; he knew not what to 
say. 

^' No," rejoined the other; " no, none for me. Do you remem- 
ber the boy that died here? " 

"I was not here, you know," said Nicholas, gently; "but 
what of him?" 

"Why," replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner's 
side, "I was with him that night, and when it was all silent he 
cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, 
but began to see faces round his bed that came from home; 
he said they smiled and talked to him ; and he died at last lift- 
ing his head to kiss them. Do you hear ? " 

"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas. 

"What faces will smile on me when I die?" cried his com- 
panion, shivering. " Who will talk to me in those long nights? 
They cannot come from home; thej^ would frighten me if they 
did, for I don't know what it is, and shouldn't know them. Pain 
and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no 
hope! " 

The bell rang to bed ; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into 
his usual listless state crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. 
It was with a heavv heart that Nicholas soon afterward— no, not 



CHARLES DICKENS. 367 

retired; there was no retirement there — followed to his dirty and 
crowded dormitory. 

The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had 
spoken kindly to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and 
fro, with an ever restless desire to serve or help him ; anticipating 
such little wants as his humble ability could supply, and content 
only to be near him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking 
patiently into his face; and a word would brighten up his careworn 
visage, and call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness. He was 
an altered being; he had an object now; and that object was, to 
show his attachment to the only person — that person a stranger 
— who had treated him, not to say with kindness, but like a 
human creature. 

Upon this poor being all the spleen and ill-humor that could 
not be vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery 
would have been nothing — Smike was well used to that. Buffet- 
ings inflicted without cause, would have been equally a matter of 
course; for to them also he had served a long and weary appren- 
ticeship; but it was no sooner observed that he had become at- 
tached to Nicholas, than stripes and blows, stripes and blows, 
morning, noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers was 
jealous of the influence which his man had so soon acquired, and 
his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it, 
and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and cow- 
ardly attack. 

He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one 
night as he paced up and down the schoolroom, his swollen 
heart almost bursting to think that his protection and counte- 
nance should have increased the misery of the wretched being 
whose peculiar destitution had awakened his pity, he paused 
mechanically in a dark corner where sat the object of his 
thoughts. 

The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the 
traces of recent tears still upon his face, vainly endeavoring to 
master some task which a child of nine years old, possessed of 



368 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, 
to the addled brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed 
and hopeless mystery. Yet there he sat, patiently conning the 
page again and again, stimulated by no boyish am.bition, for he 
was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects that 
congregated about him, but inspired b}^ the one eager desire to 
please his solitary friend. 

Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder. 

"I can't do it," said the dejected creature, looking up with 
bitter disappointment in every feature. "No, no." 

"Do not try," replied Nicholas. 

The boy shook his head, and, closing the book with a sigh, 
looked vacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm. He 
was weeping. 

"Do not, for God's sake," said Nicholas in an agitated voice; 
" I cannot bear to see you." 

" They are more hard with me than ever," sobbed the boy. 

"I know it," rejoined Nicholas. " They are." 

" But for you," said the outcast, " I should die. They would 
kill me; theyw^ould; I know they would." 

"You will do better, poor fellow," replied Nicholas, shaking 
his head mournfully, " when I am gone." 

" Gone ! " cried the other, looking intently in his face. 

"Softly!" rejoined Nicholas. "Yes." 

"Are you going? " demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper. 

"I cannot say," replied Nicholas. "I was speaking more to 
my own thoughts than to you." 

"Tell me," said the boy, imploringly, " oh, do tell me, will you 
go — TFi// y ou ? " 

"I shall be driven to that at last!" said Nicholas. "The 
world is before me, after all." 

"Tell me," urged Smike, "is the world as bad and dismal as 
this place?" 

"Heaven forbid!" replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his 
own thoughts. "Its hardest, coarsest toil were happiness to 
this." 



CHARLES DICKENS. 369 

<' Should I ever meet you there? " demanded the boy, speaking 
with unusual wildness and volubility. 

''Yes," replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him. 

"No, no!" said the other, clasping him by the hand. 
" Should I — should I — tell me that again. Say I should be sure 
to find you." 

"You would," replied Nicholas, with the same humane inten- 
tion, " and I would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow 
on you, as I have done here." 

The boy caught both the young man's hands passionately in 
his, and, hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds 
which were unintelligible. Squeers entered, at the moment, and 
he shrank back into his old corner. 

The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at 
the windows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, rais- 
ing himself on his arm, looked among the prostrate forms which 
on every side surrounded him, as though in search of some par- 
ticular object. 

It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass 
of sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closely 
packed together, covered, for warmth's sake, with their patched 
and ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp 
outlines of pale faces, over which the somber light shed the same 
dull heavy color; with here and there a gaunt arm thrust forth ; 
its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully exposed to view, in 
all its shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying on their 
backs with upturned faces and clinched hands, just visible in the 
leaden light, bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of living 
creatures; and there were others coiled up into strange and fan- 
tastic postures, such as might have been taken for the uneasy 
efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, rather than the 
freaks of slumber. A few— and these were among the youngest 
of the children — slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, 
dreaming perhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and 
heavy sigh, breaking the stillness of the room, announced that 
some new sleeper had awakened to the misery of another day ; 

T. L.— 24 



370 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

and, as morning took the place of night, the smiles gradually faded 
away, with the friendly darkness which had given them birth. 

Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who 
sport on earth in the night season, and melt away in the first 
t)eam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality on 
their daily pilgrimage through the world. 

Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of 
one who gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, 
has lost none of its sorrowful effect in consequence; and after- 
ward, with a more intense and searching scrutiny, as a man 
would who missed something his eye was accustomed to meet, 
and had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied in this 
search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his 
quest, when the voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the 
bottom of the stairs. 

"Now, then," cried that gentleman, ''are you. going to sleep 
all day up there " 

''You lazy hounds!" added Mrs. Squeers, finishing the sen- 
tence, and producing at the same time a sharp sound, like that 
which is occasioned by the lacing of stays. 

" We shall be down directly, sir," replied Nicholas. 

"Down directly!" said Squeers. "Ah! you had better be 
down directly, or I'll be down upon some of you in less. Where's 
thatSmike?" 

Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer. 

" Smike ! " shouted Squeers. 

"Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?" 
demanded his amiable lady, in the same key. 

Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, 
as did the greater part of the boys, who were by this time 
roused. 

"Confound his impudence!" muttered Squeers, rapping the 
stair-rail impatiently with his cane. " Nickleby ! " 

"Well, sir?" 

" Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don't you hear me 
calling?" 



CHARLES DICKENS. 371 

'' He is not here, sir," replied Nicholas. 

" Don't tell me a lie ! " retorted the schoolmaster. "He is." 

" He is not," retorted Nicholas, angrily ; " don't tell me one." 

"We shall soon see that," said Mr. Squeers, rushing upstairs. 
"I'll find him, I warrant you." 

With which assurance Mr. Squeers bounced into the dormitory, 
and, swinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into 
the corner where thelean body of the drudge was usually stretched 
at night. The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. There 
was nobody there. 

" What does this mean? " said Squeers, turning round, with a 
very queer face. " Where have you hid him ? " 

"T have seen nothing of him since last night," replied Nich- 
olas. 

"Come," said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he endeav- 
ored to look otherwise, " you won't save him this way. Where 
is he?" 

"At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know," re- 
joined Nicholas in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the mas- 
ter's face. 

" D — n you, what do you mean by that? " retorted Squeers in 
great perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of 
the boys whether any one among them knew anything of their 
missing schoolmate. 

There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of 
which, one shrill voice was heard to say (as indeed, everybody 
thought) : 

" Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir." 

"Ha!" cried Squeers, turning sharp around. "Who said that?" 

"Tompkins, please, sir," rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr. 
Squeers made a plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a 
sTQvj little boy, habited still in his night gear, and the perplexed 
expression of whose countenance as he was brought forward, 
seemed to intimate that he was as yet uncertain whether he was 
about to be punished or rewarded for the suggestion. He was 
not long in doubt. 



372 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

"You think he has run away, do you, sir?" demanded 
Squeers. 

''Yes, please, sir," replied the boy. 

"And what, sir," said Squeers, catching the little boy sud- 
denly by the arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dex- 
terous manner; "what reason have you to suppose that any 
boy would want to run away from this establishment? Eh, 
sir?" 

The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr, 
Squeers, throwing himself into the most favorable attitude for 
exercising his strength, beat him until the little urchin in his 
writhings actually rolled out of his hands, when he mercifully 
allowed him to roll away, as best he could. 

"There," said Squeers. "Now if any other boy thinks Smike 
has run away, I should be glad to have a talk with him." 

There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicho- 
las showed his disgust as plainly as looks could show it. 

" Well, Nickleby," said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. "Jou 
think he has run away, I suppose? " 

"I think it extremely likely," replied Nicholas, in a quiet 
manner. 

" Oh, you do, do you ? " sneered Squeers. " May be you know 
he has?" 

" I know nothing of the kind." 

" He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?" sneered 
Squeers. 

" He did not," replied Nicholas; "I am very glad he did not, 
for it would then have been my duty to have warned you in 
time." 

" Which no doubt you w^ould have been devilish sorry to do," 
said Squeers, in a taunting fashion.. 

"I should, indeed," replied Nicholas. "You interpret ray 
feelings with great accuracy." 

Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation from the bottom 
of the stairs, but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed 
her night-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 373 

" What's all this here to do?" said the lady, as the hojs fell 
off righ^ and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage 
with her brawny- arms. " What on earth are you talking to him 
for, Squeery? " 

" Why, my dear," said Squeers, "the fact is, that Smike is not 
to be found." 

" Well I know that," said the lady, '' and where's the wonder? 
If you get a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the 
young dogs a rebelling, what else can you look for? Now, young 
man, you just have the kindness to take yourself off to the 
schoolroom, and take the boys off with you, and don't you stir 
out of there till you have leave given you, or you and I may fall 
out in a way that'll spoil your beauty, handsome as you think 
yourself, and so I tell you." 

" Indeed ! " said Nicholas. 

"Yes; and indeed and indeed again. Mister Jackanapes," said 
the excited lady; " and I wouldn't keep such as you in the house 
another hour, if I had my way." 

"Nor would you if I had mine," replied Nicholas. "Now, 
boys ! " 

"Ah! Now, boys," said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as 
she could, the voice and manner of the usher. "Follow your 
leader, boj^s, and take pattern by Smike, if you dare. See what 
he'll get for himself, when he is brought back ; and mind ! I tell 
you that you shall have as bad and twice as bad, if you so much 
as open your mouths about him." 

" If I catch him," said Squeers, " I'll only stop short of flaying 
him alive. I give you notice, boys." 

"// you catch him," retorted Mrs. Squeers, contemptuously, 
"you are sure to; you can't help it, if you go the right way to 
work ! Come ! Away with you ! " 

With these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the boys, and after 
a little light skirmishing with those in the rear who were press- 
ing forward to get out of the way, but were detained for a few 
moments by the throng in front, succeeded in clearing the room, 
when she confronted her spouse alone. 



374 TEE TEACEER IN LITERATURE. 

"He is off! '' said Mrs. Squeers. "The cow-house and stable 
are locked up, so he can't be there; and he's not down stairs 
anywhere, for the girl has looked. He must have gone York 
way, and by a public road, too." 

"Why must he? " inquired Squeers. 

"Stupid!" said Mrs. Squeers, angrily. "He hadn't any 
money, had he?" 

"Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know 
of," replied Squeers. 

"To be sure," rejoined Mrs. Squeers, "and he didn't take any- 
thing to eat with him; that I'll answer for. Ha! ha ! ha! " 

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Squeers. 

" Then of course," said Mrs. S., " he must beg his way, and he 
could do that, nowhere, but on the public road." 

" That's true," exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands. 

" True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all 
that, if I hadn't said so," replied his wife. "Now, if you take 
the chaise and go one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise and 
go the other, what with keeping our eyes open, and asking ques- 
tions, one or other of us is pretty certain to lay hold of him." 

The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution 
without a moment's delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and 
the prosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result of 
which seemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers 
started forth in the pony-chaise, intent upon discovery and 
vengeance. Shortly afterward, Mrs. Squeers, arraj^ed in the 
white-top coat, and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs, 
issued forth in another chaise and another direction, taking with 
her a good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and 
a stout laboring man — all provided and carried upon the expedi- 
tion, with the sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once 
caught) insuring the safe custody of the unfortunate Smike. 

Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that 
whatever might be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but 
painful and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. 
Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was the best that 



CHARLES DICKENS. 375 

could be expected from the protracted wandering of so poor and 
helpless a creature, alone and unfriended, through a country of 
which he was wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to 
choose between this fate and a return to the tender mercies of 
the Yorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a 
hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart 
ache at the prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. 
He lingered on in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possi- 
bilities, until the evening of the next day, when Squeers returned 
alone and unsuccessful. 

''No news of the scamp!" said the schoolmaster, who had 
evidently been stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few 
times during the journey. " I'll have consolation for this out of 
somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs. Squeers don't hunt him down. So I 
give you warning." 

"It is not in my power to console you, sir," said Nicholas. 

"It is nothing to me." 

"Isn't it?" said Squeers, in a threatening manner. "We 
shall see! " 

"We shall," rejoined Nicholas. 

"Here's the pony run right olf his. legs, and me obliged to 
come home with a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings besides 
other expenses," said Squeers; "who's to pay for that, do you 
hear?" 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent. 

"I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you," said Squeers, his 
usual harsh, crafty manner changed to open bullying. "None 
of your whining vaporings here, Mr. Puppy; but be off to your 
kennel, for its past your bed -time 1 Come, get out ! " 

Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for 
his finger-ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering 
that the man was drunk, and that it could come to little but a 
noisy brawl, he contented himself with darting a contemptuous 
look at the tyrant, and walked, as majestically as he could, up- 
stairs ; not a little nettled, however, to observe that Miss Squeers, 
and Master Squeers, and the servant girl, were enjojang the scene 



376 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

from a snug corner; the two former indulging in many edifying 
remarks about the presumption of poor upstarts, which 
occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even the most miser- 
able of all miserable servant girls joined; while Nicholas, stung 
to the quick, drew over his head such bed-clothes, as he had, 
and sternly resolved that the outstanding account between him- 
self and Mr. Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than 
the latter anticipated. 

Another daj came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when 
he heard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It 
stopped. The A^oice of Mrs. Squeers was heard, and in exulta- 
tion, ordering a glass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself 
a sufficient sign that something extraordinary had happened. 
Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the window; but he did so, 
and the very first object that met his eyes was the wretched 
Smike so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard, and worn, 
and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow 
w'as ever seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, cA^en then, 
of his identity. 

"Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his 
eyes in silence upon the culprit. " Bring him in ; bring him in !" 

"Take care," cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his 
assistance. "We tied his legs under the apron and made 'em 
fast to the chaise, to prevent him giving us the slip again." 

With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the 
cord ; and Smike, to all appearance more dead than alive, was 
brought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar, until 
such time as Mr. Squeers should deem it expedient to operate 
upon him, in presence of the assembled school. 

Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances it may be a 
matter of surprise to some persons that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers 
should have taken so much trouble to repossess themselves of an 
incumbrance of which it was their wont to complain so loudly; 
but their surprise will cease when they are informed that the 
manifold services of the drudge, if performed by an3^body else, 
would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve shillings 



CHARLES DICKENS. 377 

per week in the shape of wages; and, furthermore, that all run- 
aways were, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of at 
Dothebo^^s Hall, inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited 
extent of its attractions, there was but little inducement beyond 
the powerful impulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the 
usual number of legs, and the power of using them, to remain. 

The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in 
triumph ran like wild-fire through the hungry community, and 
expectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it was 
destined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers, 
having refreshed himself with his dinner, and further strengthened 
himself by an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accom- 
panied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of portentous 
import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, 
wax-ended , and new — in short, purchased that morning expressly 
for the occasion. 

''Is every boy here ? " asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice. 
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak; so 
Squeers glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye 
drooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so. 

"Each boy keep his place," said Squeers, administering his 
favorite blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfac- 
tion the universal start which it never failed to occasion. 
''Nickleby ! to your desk, sir." 

It was remarked by more than one small observer that there 
was a very curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; 
but he took his seat without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, 
casting a triumphant glance at his assistant and a look of most 
comprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortly 
afterward returned, dragging Smike by the collar— or rather by 
that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where 
his collar would have been, had he boasted such a decoration. 

In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, 
spiritless object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion 
and remonstrance. It had some effect even there; for the look- 
ers-on moved uneasily in their seats, and a few of the boldest 



378 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ventured to steal looks at each other, expressive of indignation 
and pity. 

They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened 
on the luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in 
such cases, whether he had anything to say for himself. 

"Nothing, I suppose? " said Squeers, with a diabolical grin. 

Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on 
Nicholas, as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look 
was riveted on his desk. 

" Have you anything to say? " demanded Squeers again; giv- 
ing his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power and 
suppleness. "Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my 
dear; I've hardly got room enough." 

"Spare me, sir ! " cried Smike. 

" 0"h ! that's all is it ? " said Squeers. "Yes, I'll flog you within 
an inch of your life, and spare you that." 

"Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed Mrs. Squeers, "that's a good 'un." 

"I was driven to do it," said Smike, faintly: and casting 
another imploring look about him. 

"Driven to do it, were you?'' said Squeers. "Oh! it wasn't 
your fault; it was mine, I suppose— eh ? " 

"A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking 
dog," exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her 
arm, and administering a cuff at every epithet ; "what does he 
mean by that?" 

"Stand aside, my dear," replied Squeers. "We'll try and find 
out." 

Mrs. Squeers being out of breath with her exertions, complied. 
Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip ; one desperate cut had 
fallen on his body — he was wincing from the lash and uttering a 
scream of pain — it was raised again, and again about to fall — 
when Nicholas Nickleby suddenly starting up, cried, " Stop ! " in 
a voice that made the rafters ring. 

" Who cried stop? " said Squeers, turning savagel}*^ round. 

"I," said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must not go 
on." 



CHARLES DICKENS. 379 

" Must not go on ! " cried Squeers, almost in a shriek. 

<' No ! " thundered Nicholas. 

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, 
Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace 
or two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively 
frightful. 

"1 say must not,"' repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted ; " shall 
not. I will prevent it." 

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out 
of his head; but astonishment had actually for the moment 
bereft him of speech. 

"You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miser- 
able lad's behalf," said Nicholas; "you have returned no answer 
to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to 
be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame 
me for this public interference. You have brought it upon your- 
self; not I." 

"Sit down, beggar ! " screamed Squeers, almost beside himself 
with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke. 

"Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your 
peril! I will not stand by and see it done. My blood is up, 
and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to 
yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you, if you drive me 
on!" 

" Stand back! " cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon. 

"I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nicholas, 
flushed with passion; "and my indignation is aggravated by the 
dastardly cruelties practiced on helpless infancy in this foul den. 
Have a care; for if 3'ou do raise the devil within me the conse- 
quences shall fall heavily upon your own head! " 

He had scarcely spoken, w'hen Squeers, in a violent outbreak 
of wrath, and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat 
upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his instru- 
ment of torture, wiiich raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was 
inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow and concentrat- 
ing into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn and indig- 



380 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

nation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his 
hand, and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he 
roared for mercy. 

The boys — with the exception of Master Squeers, who, com- 
ing to his father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear — 
moved not, hand or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks 
for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner's coat, and endeavored 
to drag him from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers 
who had been peeping through the key-hole in the expectation 
of a very different scene, darted in at the verj^ beginning of the 
attack, and after launching a shower of ink-stands at the 
usher's head, beat Nicholas to her heart's content, animating 
herself with every blow, with the recollection of his having 
refused her proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength 
to an arm which (as she took after her mother in this respect) 
was, at no time, one of the weakest. 

Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no 
more than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming 
tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew 
weak besides, he threw all his remaining strength into half-a- 
dozen finishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him, with all the 
force he could muster. The violence of this fall precipitated Mrs. 
Squeers completely over an adjacent form ; and Squeers, striking 
his head against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the 
ground, stunned and motionless. 

Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascer- 
tained, to his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only 
stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had had some 
unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore 
him, and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. 
He looked anxiously around for Smike, as he left the room, but 
he was nowhere to be seen. 

After a brief consideration, h6 packed up a few clothes in a 
small leathern valise, and, finding that nobodj^ offered to oppose 
his progress, marched boldly out of the front door, and, shortly 
afterward, struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge. 



GEORGE ELIOT. 

1819-1880. 

George Eliot, the nom de plume of Marian Evans, a brilliant novel- 
ist of our own times, was born at Arbury Farm, Warwickshire, England, 
1819. She received a superior education, and from the first evinced a 
fondness for literary pursuits. At the age of seventeen her mother died, 
and she assumed the management of her father's house. During this 
time she translated Strauss' "Life of Jesus," and shortly after Spinoza's 
Ethics. In 1851 she became assistant editor of the Westminster Review, 
and later a valuable contributor to Blackwood' s Magazine. The publi- 
cations by Avhich she is best know^n are "Adam Bede," " The Mill on the 
Floss," "Silas Marner," "Eomola," "Felix Holt," " Middlemarch," 
"Daniel Deronda," "Scenes from Clerical Life," and "The Spanish 
Gipsy." 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

It is at this point that we touch the secret spring of George Eliot's 
art; her whole work is imbued with ethical notions. The novel is, no less 
than the poem, a criticism of life ; and the remarkable influence of George 
Eliot's novels has been mainly due to the consistent application of moral 
ideas to the problems set by each novel. Their stimulative effect was due 
to the fact that her ethical views w^ere in consonance with some of the 
most advanced ideas of the age. The three chief principles which domi- 
nated her thinking were the reign of law in human affairs, the solidarity 
of society, and the constitution of society as incarnate history (the 
phrase is Riehl's). Flowing from these were the ethical laws which rule 
the world of her novels, the principle summed up in Novalis's words, 
"Character is Fate," the radiation of good and evil deeds throughout 
societ3% and the supreme claims of family or race. Add to these the 
scientific tone of impartiality, with its moral analogue, the extension of 
sympathy to all, and we have exhausted the idees meres of George Eliot's 
ethical system, which differentiates her novels from all others of the age. 

Joseph Jacobs. 

There can be no doubt that George Eliot touched the highest point 
which, in a woman, has been reached in our literature. . . . The 
remarkable thing about George Eliot's genius is that though there is 

(381) 



382 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

nothing at all nnfeminine in it — if we except a certain touch of scientific 
pedantry which is not Y)edantry in motive, but due only to a rather awk- 
ward manipulation of somewhat uufeminine learning — its greatest quali- 
ties are not the least the qualities in which women have usually surpassed 
men, but rather the qualities in which, till George Eliot's time, women 
had always been notably deficient. Largeness of mind, largeness of con- 
ception, was her first characteristic, as regards both matters of reason 
and matters of imagination. . . . Her own nature was evidently 
sedate and rather slow-moving, with a touch of Miltonic stateliness in 
it, and a love of elaboration at times even injurious to her genius. Yet 
no chai-acters she ever drew^ were more powerful than those at the very 
opposite pole to her own. . . . Her greatest stories lose in form by 
their too wide reflectiveness, and especially by an engrafted mood of 
artificial reflectiveness not suitable to her genius. . . . No novelist, 
however, in the whole series of English novelists, has combined so much 
power of painting external life on a broad canvas with so wonderful an 
insight into the life of the soul. ''Spectator." 



The Night-School and the Schoolmaster. 

(From "Adam Bede.") 

Bartle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge 
of a common which w^as divided by the road to Treddleston. 
Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall 
Farm ; and when he had his hand on the door latch, he could 
see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight or 
nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin dips. 

When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward, and 
Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take his place 
where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson 
to-night, and his mind was too full of personal matters, too full 
of the first two hours he had passed in Hett3^'s presence, for him 
to amuse himself with a book till school was over; so he sat 
down in a corner, and looked on with an absent mind. It was 
a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; 
he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen 
of Bartle Massey's handwriting which hung over the schoolmas- 
ter's head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his 
pupils ; he knew the backs of all the books on the shelf running 



GEORGE ELIOT. 383 

aloDg the whitewashed wall above the pegs for the slates; he 
knew exactly how many grains were gone out of the ear of Indian- 
corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had long ago ex- 
hausted the resources of his imagination in trying to think how 
the bunch of feathery seaweed had looked and grown in its native 
element; and from the place where he sat he could make nothing 
of the old map of England that hung against the opposite wall, 
for age had turned it of a fine yellow-brown, something like that 
of a well-seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on 
was almost as familiar as the scene; nevertheless habit had not 
made him indifferent to it, and even in his present self-absorbed 
mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the old fellow-feeling 
as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or pencil 
with their cramped hands, or humbly laboring through their 
reading lesson. 

The reading class now seated on the form in front of the 
schoolmaster's desk, consisted of the three most backward 
pupils. Adam would have known it, only by seeing Bartle 
Massey's face as he looked over his spectacles, which he had 
shifted to the bridge of his nose, not requiring them for present 
purposes. The face wore its mildest expression; the grizzled 
bushy eyebrows had taken there more acute angle of compass- 
ionate kindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a 
pout oi the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be able to speak a 
hopeful word or syllable in a moment. This gentle expression 
was the more interesting because the schoolmaster's nose, an 
irregular acquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a for- 
midable character; and his brow, moreover, had that peculiar 
tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen impa- 
tient temperament; the blue veins stood out like cords under the 
transparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow was softened 
by no tendency to baldness, for the gray bristly hair, cut down 
to about an inch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as 
ever. 

"Nay, Bill, nay," Bartle was saying, in a kind tone, as he 
nodded to Adam, "begin that again, and then, perhaps, it'll 



384 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

come to you what d, r, y, spells. It's the same lesson you read 
last week, you know." 

" Bill " was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellent 
stone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the 
trade of his years ; but he found a reading lesson in words of 
one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the hardest 
stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, 
were so "uncommon alike, there was no tellin' 'em one from 
another," the saw^^er's business not being concerned with min- 
ute differences such as exist between a letter with its tail turned 
up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firm 
determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on 
two reasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read 
anything "right off," whether it was print or writing, and Tom 
had sent him a letter from twenty miles off, saving how he was 
prospering in the world, and had got an overlooker's place; 
secondly, that Sam Philips, who sawed with him, had learned 
to read when he was turned twenty; and what could be done 
by a little fellow like Sam Philips, Bill considered, could be 
done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay 
if circumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big 
finger toward three words at once, and turning his head on one 
side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one word 
which was to be discriminated out of the group. The amount 
of knowledge Bartle Massey must possess was something so dim 
and vast that Bill's imagination recoiled before it; he would 
hardly have ventured to denj^ that the schoolmaster might have 
something to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight 
and the changes in the weather. 

The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type; he 
was a Methodist brickmaker, who, after spending thirty years of 
his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had latel^^ "got 
religion," and along with it the desire to read the Bible. But with 
him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his way out to- 
night he had offered as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that 
he had undertaken this hard task with a single eye to the nour- 



GEORGE ELIOT. 385 

ishment of his soul— that he might have a greater abundance of 
texts and hymns wherewith to banish evil memories and the 
temptations of old habits; or, in brief language, the devil. For 
the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and was suspected, 
though there was no good evidence against him, of being the man 
who had shot a neighboring gamekeeper in the leg. However 
that might be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred 
to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Meth- 
odist preacher at Treddleston, a great change had been observed 
in the brickmaker; and though he was still known in the neigh- 
borhood by his old sobriquet of " Brimstone," there was nothing 
he held in so much horror as any farther transactions with that 
evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chested fellow with a fer- 
vid temperament, which helped him better in imbibing religious 
ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere human knowl- 
edge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken 
in his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that 
the letter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a 
fear that Brimstone was too eager for the knowedge that puffeth 
up. 

The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was 
a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a 
very pale face, and hands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, 
who, in the course of dipping home-spun wool and old women's 
petticoats, had got fired with the ambition to learn a great deal 
more about the strange secrets of color. He had already a high 
reputation in the district for his dyes, and he was bent on dis- 
covering some method by which he could reduce the expense of 
crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston had given 
him a notion that he might save himself a great deal of labor 
and expense if he could learn to read, and so he had begun to give 
his spare hours to the night-school, resolving that his "little 
chap " should lose no time in coming to Mr. Massey's day-school 
as soon as he was old enough. 

It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of 
their hard labor upon them, anxiously bending over the worn 

_ T. L.— 25 

r 



386 • THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

books, and painfully making out, "The grass is green," "The 
sticks are dry," "The corn is ripe" — a very hard lesson to pass 
to after columns of single words all alike except in the first letter. 
It was almost as if three rough animals were making humble 
efforts to learn how they might become human. And it touched 
the tenderest fiber in Bartle Massey's nature, for such full grown 
children as these were the only pupils for whom he had no severe 
epithets, and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with an 
imperturbable temper, and on music nights it was apparent that 
patience could never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, 
as he glances over his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who 
is turning his head on one side with a desperate sense of blank- 
ness before the letters, d, r, y, his eyes shed their mildest and 
most encouraging light. 

After the reading class, two youths, between sixteen and nine- 
teen, came up with imaginary bills of parcels which they had been 
writing out on their slates, and were now required to calculate 
"off-hand"— a test which they stood with such imperfect success 
that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glaring at them omi- 
nously through his spectacles for some minutes, at length burst 
out in a bitter high-pitched tone, pausing between every sentence 
to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which rested between his 
legs. 

"Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you 
did a fortnight ago; and I'll tell you what's the reason. You 
want to learn accounts; that's well and good. But j^ou think 
all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and do sums 
for an hour or so, two or three times a week; and no sooner do 
you get your caps on and turn out of doors again, than you 
sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go whistling 
about, and take no more care what you're thinking of than if 
your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through that 
happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in 'em, 
it's pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to 
be got cheap — you'll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a 
week, and he'll make you clever at figures without your taking 



GEORGE ELIOT. 387 

any trouble. But knowledge isn't to be got by parang sixpence, 
let me tell you ; if you're to know figures, you must turn 'em over 
in your own heads, and keep your thoughts on 'em. There's 
nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there's nothing but what's 
got number in it— even a fool. You may say to yourselves, 'I'm 
one fool and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighed four 
pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, 
how many penny- weights heavier would mj^ head be than Jack's? ' 
A man that has got his heart in learning figures would make 
sums for himself and work 'em in his head ; when he sat at his 
shoemaking, he'd count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on 
his stitches, say half a farthing, and then see how much money he 
could get in an hour ; and then ask himself how^ much money he'd 
get in a day at that rate; and then how much ten workmen would 
get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate — 
and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he left 
his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the 
short of it is— I'll have nobody in my night-school that doesn't 
strive to learn what he came to learn, as hard as if he was striv- 
ing to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no 
man away because he is stupid; if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted 
to learn anything, I'd not refuse to teach him. But I'll not throw 
away good knowledge on people who think they can get it by the 
sixpenn'orth, and carry it away W'ith them as they would an 
ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if you can't show 
that you have been working with your own heads, instead of 
thinking you can pay mine to work for you. That's the last word 
I've got to say to you." 

With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap 
than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got 
up with a sulky look. 



388 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 



Tom's "First Half." 

(From " The Mill on the Floss,") 

Tom Tulliver's sufferings during the first quarter he was at 
King's Lorton. under the distinguished care of the Rev. Walter 
Stelling, were rather severe. At Mr. Jacobs's academy, life had 
not presented itself to him as a difficult problem : there were 
plenty of fellows to play with, and Tom being good at all active 
games — fighting especially — had that precedence among them 
which appeared to him inseparable from the personality of Tom 
Tulliver. Mr. Jacobs himself, familiarly known as Old Goggles, 
from his habit of wearing spectacles, imposed no painful awe; 
and if it was the property of snuffy old hypocrites like him 
to write like copper-plate and surround their signatures with 
arabesques, to spell without forethought, and to spout "My 
Name is Norval" without bungling, Tom, for his part, was 
rather glad he was not in danger of those mean accomplish- 
ments. 

He was not going to be a snuffy schoolmaster — he; but a 
substantial man like his father, who used to go hunting when he 
was younger, and rode a capital black mare — as pretty a bit of 
horse-flesh as ever you saw. Tom had heard what her points 
were a hundred times. He meant to go hunting too, and to be 
generally respected. When people were growing up, he consid- 
ered, nobody inquired about their writing and spelling; when he 
was a man, he should be master of everything and do just as he 
liked. It had been very difficult for him to reconcile himself to 
the idea that his school-time was to be prolonged, and that he 
was not to be brought up to his father's business, which he had 
always thought extremely pleasant, for it was nothing but rid- 
ing about, giving orders, and going to market ; and he thought 
that a clergyman would give him a great many Scripture lessons, 
and probably make him learn the Gospel and Epistle on a Sun- 
day, as well as the Collect. 

But in the absence of specific information it was impossible for 



GEORGE ELIOT. 389 

hira to imagine that school and a schoolmaster would be some- 
thing entirely different from the academy of Mr. Jacobs. So, not 
to be at a deficiency, in case of his finding genial companions, 
he had taken care to carry with him a small box of percussion 
caps ; not that there was anything particular to be done with 
them, but they would serve to impress strange boys with a 
sense of his familiarity with guns. Thus poor Tom, though he 
saw very clearly through Maggie's illusions, was not without 
illusions of his own, which were to be cruelly dissipated by his 
enlarged experience at King's Lorton. 

. He had not been there a fortnight before it was evident that 
life, complicated not only with the Latin grammar but with a 
new standard of English pronunciation, was a very difficult 
business, made all the more obscure by a thick mist of bashful- 
ness. Tom, as you have observed, was never an exception 
among boys for ease of address; but the difficulty of enunciat- 
ing a monosyllable in reply to Mr. and Mrs. S telling was so 
great, that he even dreaded to be asked at the table whether he 
would have more pudding. As to the percussion caps, he had 
almost resolved, in the bitterness of his heart, that he would 
throw them into a neighboring pond; for not only was he the 
solitary pupil, but he began to have a certain skepticism about 
guns, and a general sense that his theory of life was undermined. 
For Mr. Stelling thought nothing of guns, or horses either, ap- 
parently; and yet it was impossible for Tom to despise Mr. Stell- 
ing as he had despised Old Goggles. If there was anything that 
was not thoroughly genuine about Mr. Stelling, it lay quite 
beyond Tom's power to detect it ; it is only by a wide compar- 
ison of facts that the wisest full-grown man can distinguish well- 
rolled barrels from more supernal thunder. 

Mr. Stelling was a well-sized, broad-chested man, not yet 
thirty, with flaxen hair standing erect, and large lightish-gray 
eyes, which were always very wide open ; he had a sonorous bass 
voice, and an air of defiant self-confidence inclining to brazenness. 
He had entered on his career with great vigor, and intended to 
make a considerable impression on his fellow-men. The Rev. 



390 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Walter Stelling was not a man who would remain among the 
•'inferior clergy" all his life. He had a true British determina- 
tion to push his way in the world-. As a schoolmaster, in the 
first place; for there were capital masterships of grammar- 
schools to be had, and Mr. Stelling meant to have one of them. 
But as a preacher also, for he meant always to preach in a 
striking manner, so as to have his congregation swelled by ad- 
mirers from neighboring parishes, and to produce a great sensa- 
tion whenever he took occasional duty for a brother clergyman 
of minor gifts. The style of preaching he had chosen was the 
extemporaneous, which was held little short of the miraculous in 
rural parishes like King's Lorton. Some passages of Massillon 
and Bourdaloue, which he knew by heart, were really very 
effective when rolled out in Mr. Stelling 's deepest tones; but as 
comparatively feeble appeals of his own were delivered in the 
same manner, they were often thought quite as striking by his 
hearers. Mr. Stelling's doctrine was of no particular school; if 
anything, it had a tinge of evangelicalism, for that was "the 
telling thing" just then in the diocese to which King's Lorton 
belonged. 

In short, Mr. Stelling was a man who meant to rise in his pro- 
fession, and to rise by merit, clearly, since he had no interest 
beyond what might be promised by a problematic relationship 
to a great lawyer who had not yet become Lord Chancellor. A 
clergyman who has such vigorous intentions naturally gets a 
little into debt at starting; it is not to be expected that he will 
live in the style of a man who means to be a poor curate all his 
life, and if the few hundreds Mr. Timpson advanced toward his 
daughter's fortune did not suffice for the purchase of handsome 
furniture, together with a stock of wine, a grand piano, and the 
laying out of a superior flower-garden, it followed in the most 
rigorous manner, either that these things must be procured by 
some other means, or else that the Rev. Mr. Stelling must go 
without them — which last alternative would bean absurd pro- 
crastination of the fruits of success, where success was certain. 

Mr. Stelling was so broad-chested and resolute that he felt 



GEORGE ELIOT. 391 

equal to anything; he would become celebrated by shaking the 
consciences of his hearers, and he would by and-by edit a Greek 
play, and invent several new readings. He had not yet selected 
the play, for having been married little more than two years, his 
leisure time had been much occupied with attentions to Mrs. 
Stelling ; but he had told that line woman what he meant to do 
some day, and she felt great confidence in her husband, as a man 
w^ho understood everything of that sort. 

But the immediate step to future success was to bring on Tom 
Tulliver during his first half-year; for, by a single coincidence, 
there had been some negotiation concerning another pupil from 
the same neighborhood, and it might further a decision in Mr. 
Stelling's favor, if it were understood that young Tulliver, who, 
Mr. Stelling observed in conjugal privacy, was rather a rough 
cub, had made prodigious progress in a short time. It was on 
this ground that he was severe with Tom about his lessons ; he 
was clearly a boy whose powers would never be developed through 
the medium of Latin grammar, without the application of some 
sternness. Not that Mr. Stelling was a harsh- tempered or unkind 
man — quite the contrary; he was jocose with Tom at table, and 
corrected his provincialisms and his deportment in the most 
playful manner; but poor Tom was only the more cowed and 
confused by this double novelty, for he had never been used to 
jokes at all like Mr. Stelling's ; and for the first time in his life he 
had a painful sense that he w^as all wrong somehow. When Mr. 
Stelling said, as the roast beef was being uncovered, "Now, 
Tulliver ! which w^ould you rather decline, roast-beef, or the Latin 
for it?" — Tom, to whom in his coolest moment a pun would 
have been a hard nut, was thrown into a state of embarrassed 
alarm that made everything dim to him except the feeling that 
he would rather not have anything to do with Latin ; of course 
he answered, '-Roast-beef," whereupon there followed much 
laughter and some practical joking with the plates, from which 
Tom gathered that he had in some mysterious way refused beef, 
and, in fact, made himself appear "■ a silly." 

If he could have seen a fellow-pupil undergo these painful 



392 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

operations and survive them in good spirits, he might sooner 
have taken them as a matter of course. But there are two 
expensive forms of education, either of which a parent may 
procure for his son bj sending him as solitary pupil to a clergy- 
man: one is, the enjoyment of the reverend gentleman's undi- 
vided neglect; the other is, the endurance of the reverend gentle- 
man's undivided attention. It was the latter privilege for which 
Mr. TuUiver paid a high price in Tom's initiatory months at 
King's Lorton. 

That respectable miller and malster had left Tom behind, and 
driven homeward in a state of great mental satisfaction. He 
considered that it was a happy moment for him when he had 
thought of asking Riley's advice about a tutor for Tom. Mr. 
Stelling's eyes were so wide open, and he talked in such an off- 
hand, matter-of-fact way — answering every difficult slow remark 
of Mr. Tulliver's with, " I see, my good sir, I see; " "To be sure, 
tp be sure;" "You want your son to be a man who will make 
his way in the world,"— that Mr. Tulliver was delighted to find 
in him a clergyman whose knowledge was so applicable to the 
every-day affairs of this life. Except Counselor Wylde, whom he 
had heard at the last sessions, Mr. Tulliver thought the Rev. 
Mr. Stelling was the shrewdest fellow he had ever met with — not 
unlike Wylde, in fact; he had the same way of sticking his 
thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Mr. Tulliver was not 
by any means an exception in mistaking brazenness for shrewd- 
ness: most laymen thought Stelling shrewd, and a man of 
remarkable powers generally; it w^as chiefly by his clerical 
brethren that he was considered rather a dull fellow. But he 
told Mr. Tulliver several stories about "Swing" and incendi- 
arism, and asked his advice about feeding pigs in so thoroughly 
secular and judicious a manner, with so much polished glibness 
of tongue, that the miller thought here was the very thing 
he wanted for Tom. He had no doubt this first-rate man was 
acquainted with every branch of information, and knew exactly 
what Tom must learn in order to become a match for the 
lawyers — which poor Mr. Tulliver himself did not know, and so 



GEORGE ELIOT. 393 

was necessarily thrown for self-direction on this wide kind of 
inference. It is hardly fair to langh at him , for I have known 
much more highly instructed persons than he make inferences 
quite as wide, and not at all wiser. 

As for Mrs. Tulliver — finding that Mrs. Stelling's views as to 
the airing of linen and the frequent recurrence of hunger in a 
growing boy, entirely coincided with her own; moreover, that 
Mrs. Stelling, though so young a woman, and only anticipating 
her second confinement, had gone through very nearly the same 
experience as herself with regard to the behavior and funda- 
mental character of the monthly nurse — she expressed great 
contentment to her husband, w^hen they drove away, at leaving 
Tom with a woman who, in spite of her youth, seemed quite 
sensible and motherly, and asked advice as prettily as could be. 

"They must be very well off, though," said Mrs. Tulliver, "for 
everything's as nice as can be all over the house, and that 
watered silk she had on cost a pretty penny. Sister Pullet has 
got one like it." 

"Ah," said Mr. Tulliver, "he's got some income besides the 
curacy, I reckon. Perhaps her father allows 'em something. 
There's Tom 'ull be another hundred to him, and not much 
trouble either, by his own account; he says teaching comes 
natural to him. That's wonderful, now," added Mr. Tulliver, 
turning his head on one side, and giving his horse a meditative 
tickling on the flank. 

Perhaps it was because teaching came naturally to Mr. Stell- 
ing, that he set about it with that uniformity of method and 
independence of circumstances which distinguish the actions 
of animals understood to be under the immediate teaching of 
nature. Mr. Broderip's amiable beaver, as that charming natu- 
ralist tells us, busied himself as earnestly in constructing a dam, 
in a room up three pairs of stairs in London, as if he had been 
laying his foundation in a stream or lake in Upper Canada. It 
was "Binny's" function to build; the absence of water or of 
possible progeny was an accident for which he was not account- 
able. With the same unerring instinct Mr. Stelling set to work 



394 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

at his natural method of instilling the Eton Grammar and 
Euclid into the mind of Tom Tulliver. This, he considered, was 
the only basis of solid instruction ; all other means of education 
were mere charlatanism, and could produce nothing better than 
smatterers. Fixed on this firm basis, a man might observe the 
display of various or special knowledge made by irregularly 
educated people, with a pitying smile; all that sort of thing was 
very well, but it was impossible these people could form sound 
opinions. 

In holding this conviction Mr. Stelling was not biased, as some 
tutors have been, by the excessive accuracy or extent of his own 
scholarship; and as to his views about Euclid, no opinion could 
have been freer from personal partiality. Mr. Stelling was very 
far from being led astray by enthusiasm, either religious or intel- 
lectual; on the other hand, he had no secret belief that every- 
thing was humbug. He thought rehgion was a very excellent 
thing and Aristotle a great authority, and deaneries and pre- 
bends useful institutions, and Great Britain tlie providential 
buhvark of Protestantism, and faith in the unseen a great sup- 
port to afflicted minds; he believed in all these things as the 
Swiss hotel-keeper believes in the beauty of the scenerj' around 
him, and in the pleasure it gives to artistic visitors. And in the 
same way Mr. Stelling believed in his method of education; he 
had no doubt that he was doing the very best thing for Mr. Tul- 
liver's boy. Of course, when the miller talked of " mapping " and 
" summing" in a vague and diffident manner, Stelling had set his 
mind at rest by an assurance that he understood what was 
wanted ; for how was it possible the good man could form any 
reasonable judgment about the matter ? Mr. Stelling's duty 
was to tea(ih the lad in the only right way — indeed, he knew no 
other; he had not wasted his time in the acquirement of any- 
thing abnormal. 

He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid lad ; 
for though by hard labor he could get particular declensions 
into his brain, anything so abstract as the relation between 
cases and terminations could by no means get such a lodgment 



GEORGE ELIOT. 395 

there as to enable him to recognize a chance genitive or dative. 
This struck Mr. Stelling as something more than natural stu- 
pidity; he suspected obstinacy, or at any rate, indifference, and 
lectured Tom severely on his want of thorough application. 
" You feel no interest in what you're doing, sir," Mr. Stelling 
would say, and the reproach was painfully true. Tom had 
never found any difl3culty in discerning a pointer from a setter, 
when once he had been told the distinction, and his perceptive 
powers were not at all deficient. 

I fancy they were quite as strong as those of the Rev. Mr. 
Stelling; for Tom could predict with accurac}^ w^hat number of 
horses were cantering behind him; he could throw a stone right 
into the center of a given ripple; he could guess to a fraction 
how many lengths of his stick it would take to reach across the 
playground, and could draw almost perfect squares on his slate 
without any measurement. But Mr. Stelling took no note of 
these things; he onh^ observed that Tom's faculties failed him 
before the abstractions hideously symbolized to him in the pages 
of the Eton Grammar, and that he was in a state bordering on 
idiocy with regard to the demonstration that two given triangles 
must be equal — though he could discern with great promptitude 
and certainty the fact that they were equal. Whence Stelling 
concluded that Tom's brain, being peculiarly impervious to 
etymology and demonstrations, was particularly in need of being 
ploughed and harrowed by these patent implements. It was his 
favorite metaphor, that the classics and geometry constituted 
that culture of the mind which prepared it for the reception of 
any subsequent crop. 

I say nothing against Mr. Stelling's theory: if we are to have 
one regimen for all minds, his seems to be as good as any other. 
I only know it turned out as uncomfortably for Tom Tulliver 
as if he had been plied with cheese in order to remedy a gastric 
weakness which prevented him from digesting it. It is astonish- 
ing what a different result one gets by changing the metaphor! 
Once call the brain an intellectual stomach, and one's ingenious 
conception of the classics and geometry as plows and harrows 



396 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

seems to settle nothing. But then it is open to some one else to 
follo^v great authorities, and call the mind a sheet of white 
paper or a mirror, in which case one's knowledge of the diges- 
tive process becomes quite irrelevant. It was doubtless an inge- 
nious idea to call the camel the ship of the desert, but it would 
hardlj lead one far in training that useful beast. Aristotle! 
if you had had the advantage of being "the freshest modern" 
instead of the greatest ancient, would you not have mingled 
your praise of metaphorical speech, as a sign of high intelli- 
gence, with a lamentation that intelligence so rarely shows itself 
in speech without metaphor — that we can so seldom declare 
what a thing is, except by saying it is something else. 

Tom Tulliver, being abundant in no form of speech, did not 
use any metaphor to declare his views as to the nature of Latin : 
he never called it an instrument of torture; and it was not until 
he had got on some way in the next half year, and in the 
Delectus, that he w^as advanced enough to call it a " bore " and 
"beastly stuff." At present, in relation to this demand that he 
should learn Latin declensions and conjugations, Tom was in a 
state of as blank unimaginativeness concerning the cause and 
tendency of his sufferings as if he had been an innocent shrew- 
mouse imprisoned in the split trunk of an ash tree, in order to 
cure lameness in cattle. 

It is doubtless almost incredible to instructed minds of the 
present day that a boy of twelve, not belonging strictly to "the 
masses," who are now understood to have the monopoly of 
mental darkness, should have had no distinct idea how there 
came to be such a thing as Latin on this earth; yet so it was 
with Tom. It would have taken a long while to make conceiv- 
able to him that there ever existed a people w^ho bought and sold 
sheep and oxen, and transacted the every-day affairs of life, 
through the medium of this language, and still longer to make 
him understand why he should be called upon to learn it, when 
its connection with those affairs had become entirely latent. So 
far as Tom had gained any acquaintance with the Romans at 
Mr. Jacobs's academy, his knowledge was strictly correct, but it 



GEORGE ELIOT. 397 

went no farther than the fact that they were "in the New Testa- 
ment; " and Mr. Stelling was not the man to enfeeble and emas- 
culate his pupil's mind by simplifying and explaining, or to 
reduce the tonic effect of etymology by mixing it with smatterings 
extraneous information, such as is given to girls. 

Yet, strange to say, under this vigorous treatment Tom be- 
came more like a girl than he had ever been in his life before. He 
had a large share of pride, which had hitherto found itself very 
comfortable in the world, despising Old Goggles, and reposing in 
the sense of unquestioned rights; but now this same pride met 
with nothing but bruises and crushings. Tom was too clear- 
sighted not to be aware that Mr. Stelling's standard of things 
was quite different, was certainly something higher in the eyes of 
the world than that of the people he had been living amongst, 
and that, brought in contact with it, he, Tom TuUiver, appeared 
uncouth and stupid; he was by no means indifferent to this, and 
his pride got into an uneasy condition which quite nullified his 
boyish self-satisfaction, and gave him something of the girl's 
susceptibility. He was of a very firm, not to say obstinate dis- 
position, but there was no brute-like rebellion and recklessness in 
his nature; the human sensibilities predominated, and if it had 
occurred to him that he could enable himself to show some 
quickness at his lessons, and so acquire Mr. Stelling's approba- 
tion, by standing on one leg for an inconvenient length of time, 
or rapping his head moderately against the wall, or any volun- 
tary action of that sort, he would certainly have tried it. But 
no — Tom had never heard that these measures would brighten 
the understanding or strengthen the verbal memory; and he was 
not given to hypothesis and experiment. 

It did occur to him that he could perhaps get some help by 
praying for it; but as the prayers he said every evening were 
forms learned by heart, he rather shrank from the novelty and 
irregularity of introducing an extempore passage on a topic of 
petition for which he was not aware of any precedent. But one 
day, when he had broken down, for the fifth time, in the supines 
of the third conjugation, and Mr. Stelling, convinced that this 



398 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

must be carelessness, since it transcended the bounds of possible 
stupidity, had lectured him very seriously, pointing out that if 
he failed to seize the present golden opportunity of learning su- 
pines, he would have to regret it when he became a man — Tom, 
more miserable than usual, determined to try his sole resource ; 
and that evening, after his usual form of prayer for his parents 
and "little sister" (he had begun to pray for Maggie when she 
was a baby), and that he might be able always to keep God's 
commandments, he added in the same low whisper, "and please 
to make me always remember my Latin." He paused a little to 
consider how he should pray about Euclid — whether he should ask 
to see what it meant, or whether there was any other mental 
state which would be more applicable to the case. But at last he 
added — "And make Mr. Stelling say I shan't do Euclid any 
more. Amen." 

The fact that he got through his supines without mistake 
next day encouraged him to persevere in this appendix to his 
prayers, and neutralized any skepticism that might have arisen 
from Mr. Stelling's continued demand for Euclid. But his faith 
broke down under the apparent absence of all help when he got 
into the irregular verbs. It seemed clear that Tom's despair 
under the caprices of the present tense did not constitute a nodus 
worthy of interference, and since this was the climax of his diffi- 
culties, where was the use of praying for help any longer? He 
made up his mind to this conclusion in one of his dull, lonely eve- 
nings, which he spent in the study preparing his lessons for the 
morrow. His eyes were apt to get dim over the page— though he 
hated crying, and was ashamed of it. He couldn't help thinking 
with some affection even of Spouncer, whom he used to fight and 
quarrel with ; he would have felt at home with Spouncer, and in 
a condition of superiority. And then the mill, and the river, and 
Yap pricking up his ears, ready to obey the least sign when Tom 
said, " Hoigh ! " would all come before him in a sort of calenture, 
when his fingers played absently in his pocket with his great 
knife and his coil of whip-cord, and other relics of the past. 

Tom, as I said, had never been so much like a girl in his life 



GEORGE ELIOT, 399 

before, and at that epoch of irregular verbs his spirit was further 
depressed by a new means of mental development which had 
been thought of for him out of school hours. Mrs. Stelling had 
lately had her second baby, and as nothing could be more salu- 
tary for a boy than to feel himself useful, Mrs. Stelling considered 
she was doing Tom a service by setting him to watch the little 
cherub Laura while the nurse was occupied with the sickly baby. 
It was quite a pretty employment for Tom to take little Laura 
out in the sunniest hour of the autumn day — it would help to 
make him feel that Lorton Parsonage w^as a home for him, and 
that he was one of the family. The little cherub Laura, not being 
an accomplished walker at present, had a ribbon fastened round 
her waist, by which Tom held her as if she had been a little dog 
during the minutes in which she chose to walk ; but as these were 
rare, he was for the most part carrying this fine child round and 
round the garden, within sight of Mrs. Stelling's window — accord- 
ing to orders. 

If any one considers this unfair and even oppressive toward 
Tom, I beg him to consider that there are feminine virtues which 
are with difficulty combined, even if they are not incompatible. 
When the wife of a poor curate contrives, under all her disadvan- 
tages, to dress extremely well and to have a style, of coiffure 
which requires that her nurse shall occasionally ofiiciateaslady's- 
maid — when, moreover, her dinner-parties and her drawing-room 
show that effort of elegance and completeness of appointment^to 
which ordinary women might imagine a large income necessary, 
it would be unreasonable to expect of her that she should employ 
a second nurse, or even act as a nurse herself. Mr. Stelling knew 
better; he saw that his wife did wonders already, and was proud 
of her; it was certainly not the best thing in the world for young 
Tulliver's gait to carry a heavy child, but he had plenty of exer- 
cise in long walks with himself, and next half-year Mr. Stelling 
would see about having a drilling master. Among the many 
means whereby Mr. Stelling intended to be more fortunate than 
the bulk of his fellow-men, he had entirely given up that of hav- 
ing his own way in his own house. What then?— he had married 



400 • THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

''a8 kind a little soul as ever breathed," according to Mr. Rile^^, 
who had been acquainted with Mrs. Stelling's blonde ringlets 
and smiling demeanor throughout her maiden life, and on the 
strength of that knowledge would have been ready any day to 
pronounce that whatever domestic differences might arise in her 
married life must be entirely Mr. Stelling's fault. 

If Tom had had a worse disposition, he would certainly have 
hated the little cherub, Laura; but he was too kind-hearted a 
lad for that — there was too much in him of the fiber that turns 
to true manliness, and to protecting pity for the weak. I am 
afraid he hated Mrs. Stelling, and contracted a lasting dislike to 
pale blonde ringlets and broad plaits, as directly associated with 
haughtiness of manner, and a frequent reference to other peo- 
ple's "duty." But he couldn't help playing with little Laura, 
and liking to amuse her; he even sacrificed his percussion caps 
for her sake, in despair of their ever serving a greater purpose — 
thinking the small flash and bang would delight her, and thereby 
drawing down on himself a rebuke from Mrs. Stelling for teach- 
ing her child to play with fire. Laura was a sort of playfellow — 
and oh, how Tom longed for playfellows ! In his secret heart he 
yearned to have Maggie with him, and was almost ready to dote 
on her exasperating acts of forgetfulness ; though when he was 
at home, he always represented it as a great favor on his part to 
let Maggie trot by his side on his pleasure excursions. 

And before this dreary half-year was ended, Maggie actually 
came. Mrs. Stelling had given a general invitation for the little 
girl to come and stay with her brother; so wdien Mr. Tulliver 
drove over to King's Lorton late in October, Maggie came, too, 
with the sense that she was taking a great journey, and begin- 
ning to see the world. It was Mr. Tulliver's first visit to see 
Tom, for the lad must learn not to think too much about home. 

" Well, my lad," he said to Tom, when Mr. Stelling left the 
room to announce the arrival to his wife, and Maggie had begun 
to kiss Tom freely, "you look rarely ! School agrees with you." 

Tom wished he had looked rather ill. 

"I don't think I sun well, father," said Tom; " I wish you'd 



GEORGE ELIOT. 401 

ask Mr. Stelling not to let me do Euclid— it brings on the 
toothache, I think." 

(The toothache was the only malady to which Tom had ever 
been subject.) 

" Euclid, my lad — why, what's that ? " said Mr. Tulliver. 

" Oh, I don't know; it's definitions, and axioms and triangles, 
and things. It's a book I've got to learn in — there's no sense 
in it." 

*'Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly, "You mustn't say 
so. You must learn what your master tells you. He knows 
what is right for you to learn." 

"777 help you now, Tom," said Maggie, with a little air of 
patronizing consolation. "I've come to stay ever so long, if 
Mrs. Stelling asks me. I've brought my box and my pinafores, 
havn't I, father?" 

" You help me. you little silly thing! "' said Tom, in such high 
spirits at this announcement that he quite enjoyed the idea of 
confounding Maggie by showing her a page of Euclid. "I should 
like to see you doing one of zzjj lessons ! Why, I learn Latin, too ! 
Girls never learn such things. They're too silly." 

"I know what Latin is very well," said Maggie, confidently. 
" Latin's a language. There are Latin words in the dictionary. 
There's bonus, a gift." 

"Now, you're just wrong there. Miss Maggie!" said Tom, 
secretly astonished. " You think you're very wise! But ' bonus ' 
means 'good,' as it happens — bonus, bona, bonum.'' 

"Well, that's no reason why it shouldn't mean 'gift,'" said 
Maggie, stoutly. "It may mean several things — almost every 
word does. There's 'lawn,' — it means the grass-plot, as well as 
the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of." 

" Well done, little 'un," said Mr. Tulliver, laughing, while Tom 
felt rather disgusted with Maggie's knowingness, though beyond 
measure cheerful at the thought that she was going to stay with 
him. Her conceit would soon be overawed by the actual inspec- 
tion of his books. 

Mrs. Stelling, in her pressing invitation, did not mention a 

T. L.— 26 



402 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

longer time than a week for Maggie's stay ; but Mr. Stelling, who 
took her between his knees, and asked her where she stole her 
dark eyes from, insisted that she must stay a fortnight. Maggie 
thought Mr. Stelling was a charming man, and Mr. Tulliver was 
quite proud to leave his little wench where she would have an 
opportunity of showing her cleverness to appreciating strangers. 
So it was agreed that she should not be fetched home till the end 
of the fortnight. 

" Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie," said Tom, 
as their father drove away. " What do you shake and toss your 
head now for, you silly? " he continued, for though her hair was 
now under a new dispensation, and was brushed smoothly behind 
her ears, she seemed still in imagination to be tossing it out of 
her eyes. "It makes you look as if you were crazy." 

"Oh, I can't help that," said Maggie impatiently. "Don't 
tease me, Tom. Oh, what books!" she exclaimed, as she saw 
the book-cases in the study, "How I should like to have as 
many books as that ! " 

" Why, you couldn't read one of 'em," said Tom triumphantly. 
"They're all Latin." 

" No, they aren't," said Maggie. " I can read the back of this — 
'History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.' " 

"Well, what does that mean? You don't know," said Tom, 
wagging his head. 

" But I could soon find out," said Maggie scornfully. 

"Why, how?" 

"I should look inside, and see what it was about." 

"You'd better not, Miss Maggie," said Tom, seeing her hand 
on the volume. " Mr. Stelling lets nobody touch his books with- 
out leave, and / shall catch it, if you take it out." 

" Oh ! very well! Let me see all your books then," said Mag- 
gie, turning to throw her arms round Tom's neck, and rub his 
cheek with her small round nose. 

Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old Maggie 
to dispute with and crow over again, seized her round the waist, 
and began to jump with her round the large library table. Away 



GEORGE ELIOT. 403 

they jumped with more and more vigor, till Maggie's hair flew 
from behind her ears, and twirled about like an animated mop. 
But the revolutions round the table became more and more 
irregular in their sweep, till at last reaching Mr. Stelling's read- 
ing-stand, they sent it thundering down with its heavy lexicons 
to the floor. Happily it was the ground floor, and the study 
was a one-storied wing to the house, so that the downfall made 
no alarming resonance, though Tom stood dizzy and aghast for 
a few minutes, dreading the appearance of Mr. or Mrs. Stelling. 

"Oh, I say, Maggie," said Tom at last, lifting up the stand, 
''we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break anything, Mrs. 
Stelling'll make us cry peccavi." 

"What's that?" said Maggie. 

"Oh, it's the Latin for a good scolding," said Tom, not with- 
out some pride in his knowledge. 

<' Is she a cross woman ? " said Maggie. 

"I believe you ! " said Tom, with an emphatic nod. 

" I think all women are crosser than men," said Maggie. "Aunt 
Glegg's a great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg, and mother scolds 
me more than father does." 

"Well, youUl be a woman some day," said Tom, "so you 
needn't talk." 

" But I shall be a clever woman," said Maggie, with a toss. 

"Oh, I dare say, and a nasty conceited thing. Everybody'U 
hate you." 

" But you oughtn't to hate me, Tom; it'll be very wicked of 
you, for I shall be your sister." 

" Yes, but if you're a disagreeable thing, I shall hate you." 

" Oh, but, Tom, you won't ! I shan't be disagreeable. I shall 
be very good to you — and I shall be good to everybody. You 
won't hate me really, will you, Tom? " 

"Oh, bother! never mind! Come, it's time for me to learn 
my lessons. See here ! what I've got to do," said Tom, drawing 
Maggie toward him and showing her his theorem, while she 
pushed her hair behind her ears, and prepared herself to prove 
her capability of helping him in Euclid. She began to read with 



404 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

full confidence in her own powers, but presently, becoming quite 
bewildered, her face flushed with irritation. It was unavoidable- 
she must confess her incompetency, and she was not fond of 
humiliation. 
X "It's nonsense ! " she said, '< and very ugly stuff— nobody need 
want to make it out." 

"Ah, there, now, Miss Maggie," said Tom, drawing the book 
away, and wagging his head at her, "you see you're not so clever 
as you thought you were." 

"Oh," said Maggie, pouting, " I dare say I could make it out, 
if I'd learned what goes before, as you have." 

" But that's what you just couldn't. Miss Wisdom," said Tom. 
" For its all the harder when you know what goes before; for then 
you've got to say what definition 3 is, and what axiom Y. is. But 
get along with you now. I must go on with this. Here's the 
Latin Grammar. See what you can make of that." 

Maggie found the Latin Grammar quite soothing after her 
mathematical mortification ; for she delighted in new w^ords, and 
quickly found that there was an English Key at the end, which 
would make her very wise about Latin, at slight expense. She 
presently made up her mind to skip the rules in the Syntax — the 
examples became so absorbing. These mj^sterious sentences, 
snatched from an unknown context, — like strange horns of beasts, 
and leaves of unknown plants, brought from some far-off region, 
— gave boundless scope to her imagination, and were all the 
more fascinating because they were in a peculiar tongue of their 
own, which she could learn to interpret. It was really very inter- 
esting — the Latin Grammar that Tom had said no girls could 
learn ; and she was proud because she found it interesting. The 
most fragmentary examples were her favorites. Mors omnibus 
est communis would have been jejune, only she liked to know the 
Latin; but the fortunate gentleman whom ever^^ one congratu- 
lated because he had a son "endowed with such a disposition" 
afforded her a great deal of pleasant conjecture, and she was 
quite lost in the "thick grove penetrable by no star," when Tom 
called out : - 



GEORGE ELIOT. 405 

'< Now, then, Magsie, give us the grammar ! " 

<'0h, Tom, it's such a pretty book! " she said, as she jumped 
out of the large arm-chair to give it him; ''it's much prettier 
than the dictionary. I could learn Latin very soon. I don't 
think it's at all hard." 

"Oh, I know what you've been doing," said Tom, ''you've 
been reading the English at the end. Any donkey can do that." 

Tom seized the book and opened it with a determined and 
business-like air, as much as to say that he had a lesson to learn 
wiiich no donkeys would find themselves equal to. Maggie, 
rather piqued, turned to the book-cases, to amuse herself with 
puzzling out the titles. 

Presently Tom called to her: "Here, Magsie, come and hear 
if I can say this. Stand at that end of the table, where Mr. 
Stelling sits when he hears me." 

Maggie obeyed, and took the open book. 

"Where do you begin, Tom?" 

" Oh, I begin at 'Appellativa arborum,^ because I say all over 
again what I've been learning this week. " 

Tom sailed along pretty well for three lines ; and Maggie was 
beginning to forget her office of prompter in speculating as to 
what mas could mean, which came twice over, when he stuck 
fast at Sunt etiani volucruni. 

"Don't tell me, Maggie; Sunt etiani volucrum — Sunt etiam 
volucruni — ut ostrea, cetus " 

"No," said Maggie, opening her mouth and shaking her head. 

" Sunt etiam volucrum,'' said Tom, very slowly, as if the next 
words might be expected to come sooner when he gave them 
this strong hint that they were waited for. 

"C, e, u," said Maggie, getting impatient. 

"Oh, I know — hold your tongue," said Tom. ''Ceu passer, 
birundo; Fer arum — fer arum— '' Tom took his pencil and 
made several hard dots with it on his book-cover — ''fera- 
rum ' ' 

"Oh dear, oh dear, Tom," said Maggie, "what a time you 
are! Ut " 



406 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 



•' Ut ostrea- 



" No, no," said Maggie, '^ ut tigris " 

''Oh, yes, now I can do," said Tom ; ''it was tigris, vulpes, I'd 
forgotten: ut tigris, vulpes; et Piscium.'' 

With some further stammering and repetition, Tom got 
through the next feAv lines. 

"Now, then," he said, "the next is what I've just learned for 
to-morrow. Give me hold of the book a minute." 

After some whispered gabbling, assisted by the beating of his 
fist on the table, Tom returned the book. 

^' Mascula nomina in a," he began. 

"No, Tom," said Maggie, "that doesn't come next. Its 
Nomen non creskens genittivo " 

^'Creskens genittivo !^^ exclaimed Tom, with a derisive laugh, 
for Tom had learned this omitted passage for his yesterday's 
lesson, and a young gentleman does not require an intimate or 
extensive acquaintance with Latin before he can feel the pitiable 
absurdity of a false quantity. "Creskens genittivo! What a 
little silly you are, Maggie ! " 

" Well, you needn't laugh, Tom, for you didn't remember it at 
all. I'm sure it's spelled so; how was I to know? " 

"Phee-e-e-h! I told you girls couldn't learn Latin. It's 
Nomen non crescens genitivo " 

"Very well, then," said Maggie, pouting. "I can say that as 
well as you can. And jou don't mind your stops. For you 
ought to stop twice as long at a semicolon as you do at a 
comma, and you make the longest stops where there ought to be 
no stop at all." 

" Oh, well, don't chatter. Let me go on." 

They were presently fetched to spend the rest of the evening 
in the drawing-room, and Maggie became so animated with Mr. 
Stelling, who, she felt sure, admired her cleverness, that Tom 
was rather amazed and alarmed at her audacity. But she was 
suddenly subdued b}^ Mr. Stelling's alluding to a little girl of 
whom he had heard that she once ran away to the gypsies. 

"What a very odd little girl that must be!" said Mrs. 



GEORGE ELIOT. 407 

Stelling, meaning to be playful — but a playfulness that turned 
on her supposed oddity was not at all to Maggie's taste. She 
feared that Mr. Stelling, after all, did not think much of her, and 
went to bed in rather low spirits. Mrs. Stelling, she felt, looked 
at her as if she thought her hair was very ugly because it hung 
down straight behind. 

Nevertheless it was a very happy fortnight to Maggie, this 
visit to Tom. She was allowed to be in the study while he had 
his lessons, and in her various readings got very deep into the 
examples in the Latin Grammar. The astronomer who hated 
women generally, caused her so much puzzling speculation that 
she one day asked Mr. Stelling if all astromomers hated women, 
or whether it was only this particular astronomer. But fore- 
stalling his answer, she said : 

" I suppose it's all astronomers; because, you know, they live 
up in high towers, and if the women came there, they might talk 
and hinder them from looking at the stars." 

Mr. Stelling liked her prattle immensely, and they were on the 
best terms. IShe told Tom she should like to go to school to Mr. 
Stelling, as he did, and learn just the same things. She knew she 
could do Euclid, for she had looked into it again, and she saw 
what A B C meant : they were the names of the lines. 

"I'm sure you couldn't do it now," said Tom; "and I'll just 
ask Mr. Stelling if you could." 

"I don't mind," said the little conceited minx. "I'll ask him 
myself." 

"Mr. Stelling," she said, that same evening when they were in 
the drawing-room, "couldn't I do Euclid, and all Tom's lessons, 
if you were to teach me instead of him ? " 

"No; you couldn't," said Tom, indignantly. " Girls can't do 
Euclid; can they, sir?" 

" They can pick up a little of everything, I dare say," said Mr. 
Stelling. "They've a great deal of superficial cleverness; but 
can't go far in anj^thing. They're quick and shallow." 

Tom, delighted with this verdict, telegraphed his triumph by 
wagging his head at Maggie, behind Mr. Stelling's chair. As for 



408 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

Maggie, she had hardly ever been so mortified. She had been so 
proud to be called " quick " all her little life, and now it appeared 
that this quickness was the brand of inferiority. It would have 
been better to be slow, like Tom. 

"Ha, ha! Miss Maggie!" said Tom, when they were alone; 
"you see it's not such a fine thing to be quick. You'll never go 
far into anything, you know." 

And Maggie was so oppressed by this dreadful destiny that 
she had no spirit for a retort. 

But when this small apparatus of shallow quickness was 
fetched away in the gig by Luke, and the study was once more 
quite lonely for Tom, he missed her grievously. He had really 
been brighter, and had got through his lessons better, since she 
had been there; and she had asked Mr. Stelling so many ques- 
tions about the Roman Empire, and whether there really ever 
was a man who said in Latin, " I would not buy it for a farthing 
or a rotten nut," or whether that had only been turned into 
Latin, that Tom had actually come to a dim understanding of 
the fact that there had once been people upon the earth who 
were so fortunate as to know Latin without learning it through 
the medium of the Eton Grammar. This luminous idea was a 
great addition to his historical acquirements during this half- 
year, which were otherwise confined to an epitomized history of 
the Jews. 

But the dreary half-year did come to an end. How glad 
Tom was to see the last yellow leaves fluttering before the cold 
wind! The dark afternoons, and the first December snow, 
seemed to him far livelier than the August sunshine; and that 
he might make himself the surer about the flight of days that 
were carrying him homeward, he stuck twenty-one sticks deep 
in a corner of the garden, when he was three weeks from the 
holidays, and pulled one up every day with a great wrench, 
throwing it to a distance with a vigor of will which would have 
carried it to limbo, if it had been in the nature of sticks to travel 
so far. 

But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the 



GEORGE ELIOT. 409 

Latin Grammar— the happiness of seeing the bright Hght in the 
parlor at home, as the gig passed noiselessly over the snow-cov- 
ered bridge; the happiness of passing from the cold air to the 
warmth and the kisses and the smiles of that familiar hearth, 
where the pattern of the rug and the grate and the fire-irons 
were " first-ideas" that it was no more possible to criticise than 
the solidity and extension of matter. There is no sense of ease 
like the ease we felt in those scenes where we were born, where 
objects became dear to us before we had known the labor of 
choice, and where the outer world seemed only an extension of 
our own personality: we accepted and loved it as we accepted 
our own sense of existence and our own limbs. 

Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of our early 
home might look if it were put up at auction; an improved taste 
in upholstery scorns it; and is not the striving after something 
better and better in our surroundings, the grand characteristic 
that distinguishes man from the brute — or, to satisfy a scrupu- 
lous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes the British man 
from the foreign brute? But Heaven knows where that striving 
might lead us, if our affections had not a trick of twining round 
those old inferior things — if the loves and sanctities of our life 
had no deep immovable roots in memory. One's delight in an 
elderberry bush overhanging the confused leafage of a hedgerow 
bank, as a more gladdening sight than the finest cistus or fuchsia 
spreading itself on the softest undulating turf is an entirely un- 
justifiable preference to a nursery-gardener, or to any of those 
severely regulated minds who are free from the weakness of any 
attachment that does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of 
qualities. And there is no better reason for preferring this elder- 
berry bush than that it stirs an early memorj'^ — that it is no 
novelty in my life, speaking to me merely through m}^ present 
sensibilities to form and color, but the long companion of my 
existence, that wove itself into my joys when joys were vivid. 



" D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 

1829. 

D'Arcy Wentworth Thompson, the author of "Day Dreams of a 
Schoolmaster," was born in Cumberland county, England, in 1829. His 
early school days were passed in London, and from there he went to Cam 
bridge, where he took the regular university course. He attained promi- 
nence as a classical master in Edinburgh Academy, a position which he 
held with great credit for many years. He fills at present the chair of 
Greek at Queen's College, Galway, Ireland. His " Day Dreams of a School- 
master" was published w'hile at Edinburgh, and by reason of its pro- 
nounced views on methods of instruction in the ancient languages it 
attracted attention on both sides of the Atlantic, resulting in an invita- 
tion to deliver a course of lectures on this and kindred subjects at the 
Lowell Institute in Boston. These lectures have since been published in 
book form, entitled "Wayside Thoughts." His literary work has be^n 
almost wholly in the educational line, and, besides the above, includes 
"Ancient Leaves," "Wit and Wisdom of the Athenian Drama," and 
"Scalae Novae, or The Ladder to Latin." 

His Avritings,like those of Dickens, although so widely different in char- 
acter, produced a marked effect upon the English schools, especially in the 
matter of discipline. A careful study of the last two selections given in 
this volume, and which are commended to the reader not only for their 
pleasing style but also for their elevated moral tone and the true peda- 
gogical lessons they impart, will quite clearly illustrate this fact. The 
thoughtful, conscientious teacher will derive inspiration and strength 
from such lessons as these. 

CHARACTERIZATION. 

Professor D'Arcy Thompson has several first-rate qualifications for 
the work which he has undertaken. He knows the nature of boys, and 
is in full sympathy with them. He also knows Latin thoroughly, thinks 
in it, and writes it with great elegance. He has also thought with orig- 
inal power on the philosophy of language, is always in search of explana- 
tions, and is eager to bring everything out of the realms of unreason. 
All these qualities make themselves visible in the book before us. At the 
same time, great moderation is shown in hazarding explanations or dis- 
missing irrational rules. " English Journal of Education." 
(410) 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 411 

Day-Dreams of a Schoolmaster. 

(Abbreviated.) 



The Under Form at St. Edward's and the Theory of Elementary 

Unintelligibility. 

This day— October 10th, 1863— my Junior Class, in the Schola 
Nova of Dunedin, had its first lesson in Greek; put aside its frock 
and linen pants, and donned its breeches, intellectually. No 
transition state is agreeable to the subject, or graceful in the 
eyes of a looker-on. These little fellows will all waddle, duck-like, 
for a considerable period in their new clothes; some will never 
habituate themselves thereto ; but will by and by discard them 
and return to the frock and linen pants ; affording, it may be, a 
passing laugh to the unphilosophic bystander, but themselves 
deriving permanent comfort and unrestricted swing of limb. 

The step these innocents take to-day is, of course, a step into 
the dark. Will the darkness, into which they so confidingly 
plunge, be to them perpetual and Cimmerian? or will it duly 
break into a clear, bright dawn? Within three years the major- 
ity of them will have probably passed from within these walls. 
What an opportunity is meanwhile afforded of wreaking upon 
their little heads summary vengeance for the wrongs done me by 
a past generation ! — of doing to them as I was done by! Not 
only should I thus be giving vent to my indignation for past ill- 
usage; but, strange to say, I should actually be carrying out 
the wishes of the parents of my victims; for, in general, those 
parents dread new-fangled ways, and cling piously to old scho- 
lastic superstitions. Well, for three years, then, let me lead this 
little flock, blind-folded, by curiously sinuous and zigzag ways; 
so that, always in motion, they may never progress; and at the 
close of the triennium, remove the bandage from their eyes, and 
show them, to their wonderment, that they are standing by the 
starting-post; that they have been dancing their Greek horn- 
pipe on a plate. 



412 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

This first lesson has turned back the dial-hand of my days, and 
for a passing hour I am standing in the dawn of my own most 
dreary, weary boyhood. 

I was not quite seven and a half years old when my dear 
mother was presented with a free admission for myself, her eldest 
son, to the Grammar School of St. Edward. The offer was too 
valuable an one to admit of refusal. I was accordingly prepared 
for admission to my new home, by having my hair somewhat 
closely shorn, and by being clothed in a long, blue gown, not of 
itself ungraceful, but opening in front so as to disclose the ridic- 
ulous spectacle of knee- breeched, yellow-stockinged legs. After 
some laughter at my disguise, and much weeping at my banish- 
ment, I bade good-bye to my dear mother. We little thought at 
the time that school was to be my home for twelve long 
years. 

The day after my entry into this colossal institution, a Latin 
grammar was placed into my hands. It was a bulky book of its 
kind; considering the diminutiveness of the new student, a por- 
tentiously bulky book. It was bulky in consequence of its com- 
prehensiveness. It gave all imaginable rules, and all imaginable 
exceptions. It had providentially stored within it the requisite 
gear for whatever casualty might befall us. The syntax rules, in 
the edition presented to me, were, for the first time, rendered mer- 
cifully in English : those for gender and quantity remained in the 
old Latin; and the Latin was communicated in a hideously dis- 
cordant rhythm. Over a space of years we went systematically 
through and through that book; page after page, chapter after 
chapter. It was all unintelligible; all obscure; but some spots 
were wrapt in more than ordinary gloom. Our chronic bewilder- 
ment was varied from time to time by shooting pains, brought 
on by some passage or expression unusually indigestible. We 
read of creatures, happily few in number, that went about in the 
Epicsene Gender. Were they fish, flesh or fowl? Would the breed 
be ever extinct? Under such desperate circumstances a participle 
and a noun together were bound hand and foot, and put into the 
Ablative Absolute. What had they done to be treated in a man- 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 413 

ner thus peremptory, unreasonable, and erotcliety ? Did they ever 
get out after being once put in? Then there were gerunds in i>7, 
Do^ and Bum. How they recalled to us the old Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, 
and the smell of English blood! And supines in Um and U. 
What was the meaning of these cabalistic names? I did not 
know then ; and I do not know now. And yet I have been behind 
the scholastic curtain for twelve long years. 

There was no entire chapter in the book more broken with 
pitfalls than that, composed in doggerel, which treated of the 
rules for gender. Not one word, I am sure, of an exceptionable 
kind had escaped the diabolic ken of the compiler. String upon 
string of jangling, unmusical lines could we repeat with a sin- 
gular rapidity; understanding nothing; asking no questions. 
Oh, the sweet, simple faith of childood ! We had been told to 
commit those lines to memory, and we committed them' They 
would, doubtless, do us good in the latter days. We should, at 
all events, be flogged there and then, unless we sang them like 
caged birds. It was the will of Allah : Allah was good. 

Many of the words in that puzzling liturgy I have never fallen 
in with since, though I have been a student of its dialect for 
twenty-seven years. Some of the words I have since discovered 
to be grossly indecent in their naked English meaning. Well, 
well : they might have all been so, without doing more harm to 
our morality, than they did good to our understandings. I can 
vividly recollect one circumstance, that broke in a startling 
manner to me the dull monotony of these years. It was a hot 
and sultry afternoon. My wits were wandering, I suppose in 
green fields. So, in class-time when my turn came round, my 
brain was a tabula, rasa: the inscription was clean wiped out, 
that had been carefully written there but half an hour before. 
The master, a clergyman, had broken his cane upon a previous 
delinquent; his riding-whip was sent for, and 1 received ten lashes 
on my two hands. I was then under nine years of age. For a 
passing bewilderment I was treated as though 1 had broken 
into an orchard. Our master was shortly after, if I mistake not, 
presented to a vicarage: he was in appearance almost effemin- 



414 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

ately genteel; in dress, scrupulously neat; with fingers tapering 
and delicate as a lady's. 

The round-shot of a Latin grammar had been, I believe, tied 
to our legs, to prevent our intellectually straying. However, in 
course of time we became habituated to the incumbrance, and 
ceased to feel it as a serious check upon our movements. The 
hour at length arrived in which it was considered wise to attach 
another round-shot to our other legs. This was done accordingly 
in the shape of a Greek grammar, written entirely in Latin. This 
extra weight answered the purpose effectually: we were all brought 
to an immediate standstill. 

I have sometimes thought, in a charitable mood, that the 
compiler of this book — Heaven forgive him! to word it mildly — 
composed it originally for such students as might be familiar with 
the tongue in which it was written. My comrades and I were not 
in that condition. We had to grapple with the difficulties of one 
nnknown tongue through the medium of another tongue almost 
equally unknown. We were, in fact, required to give a determi- 
nate solution to an indeterminable problem. We had set us the 
equation: 

and were called upon to give the values of x and y in terms of 
constants to be manufactured by ourselves. It was the old, old 
story. Bricks without straw. "Ye are idle," said the task- 
masters. So they took away our scanty wisps; but diminished 
naught of the tale of bricks as heretofore. 

I have heard the system casuistically defended by men who, 
old prejudices apart, were intelligent and sagacious. "The 
abstract rules of grammar," said they, "are at first above the 
comprehension of all children. Even if they be worded in the 
mother-tongue, it will be long before their true and full signifi- 
cance is apprehended. If, then, these rules be communicated in a 
strange language, the very difficulty surmounted in committing 
them to memory will imprint them the more lastingly on their 
understandings. ' ' 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 415 

Now it would occur to me — but my simplicity may be to 
blame — that if subjects, concrete or abstract, be beyond a boy's 
comprebension, the less he has to do with them the better. We 
never ask an errand-boy to carry a weight we know he cannot 
lift. Might not the communication of such subjects be deferred 
to a period when, by a process of training, a boy's intellect were 
rendered capable of grasping them? Or, again, at the expense 
of a little time and trouble, might not the majority of grammat- 
ical rules be so simply worded and so familiarly illustrated, as to 
be brought home to the intelligence of boys of ordinary capacity? 
I grant the difficulty, if we persist in using unintelligible terms, 
as Gerunds, Supines, Aorists, and the like; and rules that would 
be awkwardly enough worded, even if they were correct in sub- 
stance. 

But for the sake of argument, let us admit the defense put for- 
ward for the old system of Elementary Unintelligibility. Then, 
surely, we may push it to its logical issues. All will allow mor- 
ality to be higher than grammar. It is, consequently, a more 
important task to imprint upon the minds of our children the 
rules of the former than the rules of the latter. But what will 
serve to imprint indelibly the rules of one science, will serve also 
to imprint the rules of another; supposing that, for the time, it 
be unnecessary that either set of rules be understood. Then why 
not communicate the Ten Commandments through the medium 
of Chinese? Or, if that method be found insufficiently irksome 
and tedious, why not improve upon the method by rendering it 
physically painful ? Might we not inculcate each portion of the 
Decalogue with the aid of a pin, and imprint it upon the memory 
of childhood by associating it with pricks upon some sensitive 
portion of the frame? In this simple manner, we might literally 
fasten a whole system of ethics and grammar upon the bodies as 
well as the brains of our little ones. The system might be ex- 
tended to our university course; and a petty domestic instru- 
ment might prove a weapon of power in the hands of an energetic 
professor of chemistry, logic or metaphysics! Our academic 
youth would go out into the world, tattooed with the records 



416 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

of their education. A man's own skin — and sometimes even 
that would be of the old material — would be his portable 
diploma. 

But to return to our Greek grammar written in Latin. Day 
after day our clerical Sphinx propounded the mysterious enigma. 
When is a door not a door? was the simple conundrum that 
confounded us. It was set us in the language of the Cuma-an 
Sibyl, and the solution was to be given in that of the Pythian 
Apollo. When I escaped from Thebes, no (Edipus had appeared. 
I wonder if the Sphinx is at the old work still. 

For five years — and five years make a hole in one's school- 
time, not to say in one's life — for five dreary years the process 
went on. We committed daily to memory some page or half- 
page of the sacred but unintelligible book. We revised it, and 
we re-revised it again and again. To lisp its contents seemed as 
natural as respiration. We could repeat glibly most perplexing 
d'eelensions and conjugations; contracts of all kinds; changes 
Attic, Ionic, and ^Eolic; verbs in w and verbs in ui\ rules of syn- 
tax, prosody, and construction, which no one seemed called upon 
to understand at the time, and to which, in their Latin form, no 
one was, to my knowledge, ever referred afterwards. 

So far did Greek accommodate itself to ordinary views, that 
we occasionally caught glimpses of such familiar friends as 
nouns, and verbs, and prepositions, and the like. But here the 
condescension ceased. Ever and anon came looming through 
the Latin fog strange forms, gigantic, spectral; Heteroclites, 
Paradigms, Asynartetuses, Syzygies; Augments, temporal and 
syllabic. The former seemed to embody some dim records of 
a pre-Adamite state; mystic allusions to bygone Mammoths, 
Behemoths, Ichthyosauri; under the latter twain seemed to lurk 
an allegory of the connection between Church and State. 

It is a grand thing to be conversant with a noble language, 
unknown to all around us, to our nearest kin. It conveys an 
undefined idea of wealth and power. We travel where they can- 
not travel. We visit at great houses, and leave them standing 
at the door. We stand in sunlight on the hill-top, while they are 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 417 

groping in the valley. We wield with ease a mighty flail of 
thought, which they cannot uplift with both hands. Yes, we 
may reasonably be proud of the capability of speaking, maybe 
of thinking in a foreign tongue. But it is either superlatively 
sublime, or superlatively ridiculous, to speak for j^ears a language 
unintelligible to one's self. 

But before quitting forever the old Under Form let me say 
that my quarrel has been with a system and not with persons. 
The only unfeeling man under whom I had been placed was the 
genteel clergyman of the riding-whip. My other masters were 
good and kindly men, who went according to order through a 
dull routine, believing in it most probably, and quite powerless 
from their position, if not also from their abilities, to modify it 
to any material extent. One of them, before passing further, I 
must specially recall. He was the only classical usher; the only 
classical authority not in orders; a tall, gigantically tall and 
muscular Scotchman, of the name of Ramsay. He was also the 
only classical teacher without a cane. He used a strap; Scotice 
the tawse. Was it because he was only an usher and a layman ? 
— or was it a kindly record of his own more merciful training in 
his dear native land ? Good soul; even in the using of this innoc- 
uous instrument he kept his elbow on the desk, to spare us the 
full sweep of his tremendous arm. There was a silly legend cur- 
rent among us, founded only on his physical strength, that the 
cane had been denied him, after his having once cut unintention- 
ally through a boy's hand — an idle myth, that wrapped a possi- 
bility in specious falsehood. To see the huge torso towering 
above the comparatively puny desk, it was like the figure-head 
of a man-of-war. Why, with a cane the man could have hewn a 
beadle to the chine, and with a birch have minced us mannikins 
to collops. I wonder if he had an ancestor at Bannockburn; 
such an one, I could imagine, with a great two-handed sword, 
would have chopped off English heads like turnips. I have 
an indistinct idea of there having been something very soft 
and tender in the domestic relations of that biggest and best of 
ushers. 

T. L.— 27 



418 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

But, farewell ! good, kindly usher! and farewell! good gentle- 
men of the Under Form ! —ye deserved a better fate than the fate 
of Sisyphus ^Eolides. 

III. 

The Hellenists. 

I have been dubbed Hellenist. Nay, never start, reader: I 
am too proud to be conceited. There: you need not stand un- 
covered. 1 am invested with the Latin Order of the Garter, and 
the Greek Order of the Golden Fleece. I am standing on a peak 
in Darien, and staring at a new Pacific, broad and blue, wherein 
lie happy islands. I have reached the zenith of all boyish hopes ; 
surely, henceforth my path will slope downwards to the grave. 
I am self-poised, self-centered. All pettiness of vanity is swallowed 
up in an absorbing contentment and pride. For three years I 
shall pace the old, shadowy cloisters; then for as many years 
shall I walk the garden of Academus ; and then pass into the 
great world by one of two roads; and at the end of one road I 
can dimly see men with gray wigs and silk gowns; and at the 
other, a circle of reverend elders with white lawn sleeves. 
Phaeton, Phaeton, your head is turning giddy! 

To descend, then, from my dizzy flight. I am in the middle of 
my seventeenth year. I have had nine years of classical drilling. 
All that I have as yet learnt might very easily, indeed, have been 
acquired, had I commenced in my thirteenth instead of in my 
eighth year, and had the system of instruction been natural and 
easy instead of being unnatural and difficult. This I state un- 
hesitatingly, after having twice carried a class through the 
whole of a school curriculum of seven years. 

Had it been my lot now to leave school, I should have carried 
away a rather pleasant remembrance of my first usher, and an 
affectionate remembrance of but one master, Delille. It was only 
in the Hellenist class that I came to love and venerate Rice, to 
love and admire Webster. Speaking from the light of subsequent 
experience, I believe no school in the world ever had, or ever 
will have, a trio of masters to surpass the trio I here men- 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 419 

tion. Let me pause for a moment, to portray them in few but 
loving words. 

Delille, our master of French, was a tall and powerfully built 
man, with a fresh and ruddy complexion, and a manly carriage. 
His temper was imperturbably good, his sense of humor in- 
fectious. He had no vulgar instrument of punishment; but by 
his noble presence and the unseen force of his character, he could 
maintain the strictest order in classes numbering above a hun- 
dred pupils. He spoke our language without a flaw of accent; it 
was only by an occasional hyper-correctness of hither for here 
that one could detect the foreigner. His classes were held out of 
the usual school-hours, sometimes even on half-h olid ays; and for 
all that, they were the pleasantest classes in the under school. 
His severest mode of punishment was to set a fable of La Fon- 
taine to be committed to memory. You were not released until 
it had been repeated without one single break; and you generally 
left him, exasperated a little at the loss of play, but laughing 
perforce at some grave piece of badinage with which he had dis- 
missed you. 

I knew him afterwards as a friend, and guest, and host. And 
what a companion he was at table or over a cigar! He was, like 
his compatriots, hon vivant; and as good a judge of wine as 
any member of a London club. He had a splendid voice for dec- 
lamation or singing; was an admirable after-dinner speaker in 
either French or English; could sing a song of Lover's with a rich 
Irish brogue; a song of Burns' with all the subtlet}^ of its pure, 
sweet accent; and roll out a sea-song of Dibdin's like a sailor! 
Had I never esteemed him as a master, I should have liked him 
as an accomplished man of the world and a delightful com- 
panion. With a number of university friends, I once dined with 
him at his house in Elj^ Place. I still remember the four kinds of 
champagne that were broached at dinner ; the Chambertin that 
flowed freely afterwards with a flow of wit and good-humor ; the 
music in the drawing-room, and the singing from ballad, opera, 
and oratorio ; the hour at midnight in the snug library ; a fum- 
ing bowl and irreproachable cigars ; and I remember, as my cab 



420 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

drove me to the Tavistock, that the lamps of Holborn showed 
through the window like mad and merry dancing stars. Alas ! I 
am writing of one whose hand I shall never grasp again, for cor- 
dial welcome or regretful farewell. 

01 Webster I cannot speak at such length; and happily, for 
the best of reasons: he is not, like his two colleagues, a memory 
alone. But I shall never forget how contagious was his zeal for 
work; how impetuously chivalrous was his character; how 
thorough his respect for industry; how unmistakable his abhor- 
rence of shuffling and sloth. And I remember thinking, at times, 
when I looked up from a remarkably white hand on the desk to a 
handsome and proud and almost haughtj^ face before me, that 
mj clerical master should have been a courtly abbe, and have 
" set in hall with prince and gentle ladye." 

And Burney — dear old Burney, as we used to call our head- 
.master — how feeble would be any words to describe our fond- 
ness for that dear, white head! The doctor was a noble type 
of the old-fashioned English headmaster. He had a loathing 
for all scientific study; was utterly ignorant of modern lan- 
guages: indeed, I believe, he looked upon Delilie as the only 
Frenchman that had ever been reclaimed from greasy cookery 
and sour claret to a repentant but honest appreciation of roast 
beef and port wine. English literature of the day to him was 
non-existent ; his lectures smacked of the last century, with 
their long undulating periods, and pauses Ciceronian. He was 
the fellow-student rather than the master of his Hellenists. 
Patiently would he pore over their exercises, in the lightest 
study that sent a melancholy gleam into the long, dark school- 
room. All information, historical, antiquarian, geographical, 
or philosophic, as connected with the classics, he regarded with 
contempt: any dunderhead, he considered, might cram that at 
his leisure; but it pained him to the quick if a senior pupil 
violated the Porsonian pause, or trifled with a subjunctive. "A 
word in your ear, doctor," said an Oxford examiner once to 
him; "your captain yesterday could not tell me where Elis 
was!" "I looked horrified," said the doctor, in repeating the 



D'AECT WENTWOETH THOMPSON. 421 

circumstance; "I looked horrified, of course; but, on nay word, 
I did not know it myself. But," continued he, "these Oxford 
fellows like this kind of thing; but I'll wager you'd get few of 
them to write a good Porson." 

Like all simple and unworldly natures, he was generous to a 
fault. He would have given anything, forgiven anything to a 
good Greek scholar. The boys of the under school feared him as 
a strict and resolute and severe disciplinarian. We, his Hellen- 
ists, knew that, while he followed, unquestionably, old Draconian 
law^s, his heart was of the kindest and softest and tenderest. How 
the old man, that could look so stern at times, would weep, when 
an old pupil went wrong at college; with what unreproaching 
kindness he would help him out of difficulties, into which idleness 
or extravagance or misfortune might have plunged him. How 
like a father he would welcome him, when all errors had been 
retrieved by the winning of an honorable place in the list of final 
honors. " You must remember, sir, that my place is due to you ; 
that but for your help last summer, I could not have returned 
for long-vacation reading." "Nonsense," replied the Doctor; " I 
remember nothing of the kind; but I'll remember long enough 
the place you held in the classical Tripos." 

And he, to whom he thus spoke, and I, who am now writing, 
and all who had the honor of belonging to the class of his Hel- 
lenists, will remember him with love and gratitude and reverence 
to the end ; ay, to the end. 

And now^, reader, w^hy should I give a description of the 
Hellenist class ? With three such masters, and a set of comrades 
most of whom were enthusiastic students, and all of whom were 
pleasant fellows, how could a triennium fail to be an industrious 
and a happy one? — It was the reign of Antoninus Pius in my 
school-life, and needs no chronicling. 



422 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

X. 

Place aux Dames. 

(Room for the Ladies.) 

The only grammar taught to girls below the age of twelve 
should be that of their own language; and its terms should be 
made as plain and intelligible as possible. Perhaps no subject 
is better taught than this latter one in our schools. But to girls 
of superior intelligence, even English is not the language upon 
w^hich to found general and comprehensive ideas of grammar, 
such as may facilitate the after-acquisition of any modern lan- 
guage. You may never inculcate ideas of filial duty on a child, 
by continually obtruding upon him impertinent mention of his 
own parents. You would tell him amusing and instructive 
stories of other children and other parents. Even so with 
'grammar. 

In the education of boys, it has been agreed, perhaps truly, 
that Latin is the best instrument for inculcating the general laws 
of language. Are there genders in educational systems, like as 
in Latin or French nouns ? Is there anything in Latin grammar 
peculiarly male? How did they talk at dinner-time in ancient 
Eome? Did the men speak only masculine nouns; the ladies, 
feminine ones; and the servants, common ones? We have no 
warrant for such a conclusion. I believe the Latin language to 
have been, and still to be, incapable of such partitioning. It is 
not of the masculine gender; nor of the feminine; nor of the 
neuter or neither; but like other languages, of the either gender. 

And, if properly taught, it would be found a far easier lan- 
guage than German ; considerably easier than French ; and a 
little easier in its old form than in its slightly altered form of 
modern Italian, which is very easy indeed. 

Heaven forbid that our girls should be taught Latin with the 
grammars now in use, and those annotated books that may 
help an incompetent master over an occasional stile, but can 
only enervate a pupil's brain, and transfer coin from the pocket 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 423 

of an exasperated parent to the pocket of an undeserving pub- 
lisher. 

Girls might, with great advantage, pass through two or even 
three years of Latin teaching, if that language were taught on 
an easy, simple, and natural method. 

Although a schoolmaster of boys, reader, I have still a touch 
of gallantry. Smile at my proposal. I would undertake to teach 
Latin to a class of girls twelve years of age, without the use of 
pedantic and expensive books, or of pedantic and meaningless 
grammar rules. 

My pronunciation would be Italian, as nearly Tuscan as I could 
make it. I would never forget that I was training children, not 
to be schoolmistresses, but gentle ladies in a drawing-room, and 
gentler mothers in a nursery. I would so teach a young class, 
that if a master of a great English school were to interrupt us in 
our work, he would say: "Ah! they are engaged in a lesson of 
trumpery Italian." And I would, perhaps, mildly quiz him to my 
pupils in correct Latinity , which, from being rapidly and musically 
spoken, he would not understand. And in two years, perhaps; 
and in three years, most certainly; I would have girls in my class, 
who would speak an old language, not unlike the language of 
modern Tuscany, in a way that would shame their brothers and 
cousins, who had been five years at any grammar school in the 
kingdom, and trained on the old system of Elementary Unintel- 
ligibility . And I would teach them Latin in such a way that very 
soon they would read a parable in either Italian or Spanish with- 
out stumbling over either word of construction. And I would 
engage to say that my pupils would like their work, and would 
not dislike their master. 

And consider the collateral effects of so bracing and health- 
ful an education of our girls. Boy-classics would be forced, in 
emulation, to dispense with much of their dull pedantry and 
youths would be ashamed to continue ignorant of modern tongues 
that their sisters spoke with elegance and ease. We haA^e now 
a smattering of youth that cram reluctantly some knowledge of 



424 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

French, German; Italian, or Spanish, to win marks in our Chinese 
examinations. What a vulgar and profane usage of the dialects 
of Corneille, Goethe, Dante, and Cervantes ! 

But, reader, you are alarmed. You are afraid that such a 
system would make blue-stockings of our girls. Prejudice, 
reader — unmanly, unchivalrous prejudice. The ladies of the 
Russian noblesse can speak almost every language of Europe; 
but they are exquisitely feminine. My brother sat for a week 
opposite a fair creature at a table cThote in Venice; and perhaps 
he never eat less, or enjoyed dinner more, for a week together. 
He heard her speak all the languages he knew ; and some that 
he did not know. But for her linguistic powers he would have 
taken her for an English girl, from her English accent and her 
blonde beauty. Of course, she was a Russian. She had no 
appearance of the blue. If she was one — then 1 could wish 
that all were even as that sweet, young, blue-eyed polyglot, 
'Twas a lucky fellow, I should think, that caught that little 
Tartar. 

Do, reader, disabuse your reasonable mind of unreasonable 
crotchets. Women have just as keen intelligence as men; less 
powers, maybe, of abstract reasoning ; but far finer perceptive 
and linguistic faculties. They need not be trained to exhaust- 
ive scholarship; but refinement of mental culture suits them, 
perhaps, even more than it does our own sex. 

I imagine that the Lady Jane, who read her Phaedo when the 
horn was calling, had as pretty a mouse-face as you ever saw in 
dream; and I am sure that gentle girl was a better scholar than 
any lad of seventeen is now in any school of England or Scot- 
land . « 

And once upon a time, reader — a long, long while ago— I knew 
a schoolmaster, and that schoolmaster had a wife. And she was 
young, and fair, and learned; like that princess-pupil of old 
Ascham; fair and learned as Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
And her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, reader— an excellent 
thing in woman. And her fingers were quick at needlework, and 
nimble in all a housewife's cunning. And she could draw sweet 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 425 

music from the ivory board ; and sweeter, stranger music from 
the dull life of her schoolmaster-husband. And she was slow at 
heart to understand mischief, but her feet ran swift to do good. 
And she was simple w4th the simplicity of girlhood, and wise 
with the wisdom that cometh only of the Lord,— cometh only to 
the children of the Kingdom. And her sweet young life was as a 
Morning Hymn, sung by child-voices to rich organ-music. Time 
shall throw his dart at Death, ere Death has slain such another. 
For she died, reader: a long, long while ago. And I stood 
once by her grave; her green grave, not far from dear Dunedin. 
Died, reader, for all she was so fair, and young, and learned, and 
simple, and good. And I am told it made a great difference to 
that schoolmaster. 

XXI. 

SUUM CUIQUE. 
(His Ov^^n.) 

Nascitur, non tit,* may be said as truly of the schoolmaster as 
of the poet. The popular but mistaken idea is, that any young 
man, who at the age of twenty-one is well enough educated for a 
learned profession, but lacks the means or spirit to push his way 
in the world of law or medicine, may subside into a teacher of the 
classics. Many young Englishmen think so themselves, and take 
clerical orders at the time of entering the despised profession, 
that they may escape from it, if on any white day a vicarage 
should fall from the clouds. These are they that are not born 
schoolmasters, but are made schoolmasters of men. 

In the matter of education, Scotland is, in many points, in ad- 
vance of her southern neighbor. The middle-class preparatory 
schools of Dunedin are unapproachably superior to anything of 
the kind — if there be anything of the kind — in England. The 
teaching of the elementary classes in our high school and Schola 
Nova is even at present far superior to that of similar classes in 
any public schools in England with which I have been directly or 
indirectly acquainted; and that includes almost all the public 

* Born, not made. 



426 THE TEACHER IN LITEEATURE. 

schools of importance in the country. With a few, but I must 
own, very important modifications, our training of junior classes 
might be made almost perfect of its kind. 

In our high school is still retained much of the beautiful vowel- 
music of Italian-Latin. The Greek professor of our Dunedin 
University— faithful among the faithless, in this respect — can 
read a simile of Homer, without marring rhythm or ignoring 
accent. 

In Scotland, also, the profession of teaching, though not suf- 
ficiently honored from a social point of view, is rightly considered 
as specific, and calling for specific qualifications. When Adam 
and Carson of our high school, Melvin of Aberdeen, and Carmi- 
chael of our own Schola Nova, first apprenticed themselves to 
their craft, they left no plank behind them for recrossing at a 
favorable opportunity to ease or affluence in an extraneous call- 
ing. They put their hands to the plough, these simple men; and 
there was no looking back. They devoted themselves to the 
business of classical instruction as single-heartedly as did the 
Apostles to the dissemination of Christian doctrine. They knew 
well enough that spiritual darkness abounded, but they left its 
enlightenment to another calling — the only one that in the dig- 
nity of usefulness takes precedence of their own. 

And one of them lived too short a life; but they all lived lives 
laborious and useful and honorable. From dawn to sunset of 
their day of toil they sowed the seed, or drave the plow, or brake 
with harrows the obstructive glebe. And when at length it was 
growing dark, these husbandmen dismissed their little reapers 
and gleaners; and gat them home, wearied; and turned to; and 
fell on sleep. No foretaste of earthly glory sweetened the bitter- 
ness of the last cup. From modest homes they were borne, un- 
noticed, to modest graves. But the statues of these Cincinnatus- 
teachers stand, not unwreathed with laurel, in the Valhalla of 
great and good and single-hearted schoolmasters, with all the 
other good men and true. And the Valhalla is not in Dunedin, 
reader; but in a great and distant city; a city not built with 
hands; a city more beautiful by far than beautiful Dunedin. 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 427 

About a furlong from my own lodgings, in a room as near to 
heaven, burns the midnight lamp of one who could read a play 
of Sophocles ere I could inarticulately scream. He has read 
more of ancient literature than many literary men have read of 
English. He has purified his Greek seven times in the fire. He 
has resuscitated many Aorists, that for centuries had lain dor- 
mant under mossy stones. He has passed, alone and fearless, 
through waste places, where no footfall had echoed for a hundred 
years. In England, nothing but a special interposition of Provi- 
dence could have saved this scholar from the Ben.ch of Bishops : 
in Scotland, nothing short of personal violence could have 
pushed him into a Professorial Chair. The fact is, this man, 
with all his learning, is bowed down with the weight of a most 
unnational modesty. Indeed, of this quality, as of erudition, 
there is as much contained in his well as would serve to irrigate 
his native country. Heaven knows what he might have been 
had he consented in earlier life to play in public the cymbals of 
clap-trap and the tom-tom of self-conceit. But his voice was 
never heard in the Palaverium of Dunedin. My friend, in fact, 
was ostracized by his fellow-citizens of the modern Athens. You 
may hear of him at Jena, Gottingen, or Heidelberg; but, in 
perusing the list of doctors of our own universities, after run- 
ning your finger down some columns of mediocre Rabbis, you 
will experience a sensation of relief in missing the name of 
Veitch. 

In day-schools, like the two great institutions of Dunedin, 
where the boys only give a morning and noon attendance for 
five days in the week, there is no call for the clerical element 
whatsoever. Their pupils combine the advantages of a public 
school with the inestimable and civilizing infiuences of home life. 
As their parents and guardians may reasonably be supposed to 
be in all cases Christian, there would seem to be no need for reli- 
gious instruction in their school hours; and it might be thought 
sufficient, if such institutions opened the work of each day with 
the reverent reading of some chapter of the New Testament, and 
a short and appropriate prayer; and if a weekly lesson were 



428 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

given from the historical portions of the older Scriptures. Not 
to speak of the heterogeneous admixture of doctrinal lessons 
with those in Latin syntax and Rule of Three, the boys are sup- 
posed to hear family prayers each morning and evening; to 
attend Divine Service regularly; and to hear the Bible read and 
expoutided by a devout father or mother. The hearing of one 
parable from the gentle voice of the latter is worth all the rel- 
gious instruction that a master can impart in class, where in the 
hearts of boys the spirit of gentleness is too apt to succumb to 
the sterner spirit of class ambition. 

However, the question is different in regard to large schools 
where children are, with questionable propriety, removed en- 
tirely from home. Here I can perfectly understand how well 
the moral and religious training of pupils might be intrusted to 
discreet clerical hands; and would allow to the chaplain of such 
an iustitution pre-eminence in rank and emolument, as due to the 
sacredness of his calling. There would be some studies, also, in 
which he could give valuable help; as in that of Biblical, and 
even secular history ; and over all he might exert a wholesome 
influence. But I am wholly at a loss to account for the fact that 
in England, the teaching of the classical languages should be 
considered as almost necessarily devolving upon the clergy. 
Why should it require Holy Orders to fit a man to teach the 
heathen tongues of Athens and Rome, any more than to teach 
the Christian tongues of France, Germany or Italy — or, indeed, 
any more than to teach drawing or music or dancing? Greek 
and Latin are important elements in the education of agentleman, 
but they enter very indirectly into the training of a Christian. 
They ma^^ lead a man part of the way to the woolsack; but they 
cannot carry him one step on the road that leads to the 
Everlasting Gates. No : many children have gone in thereat, 
that never stumbled through a declension; or that stumbled 
through one, and nothing more : many men, that in boyhood fell 
through the Asses' Bridge, have, in spite of corpulence, passed 
safely over the suspended camel's hair, that breaks onl}- beneath 
iniquity: many dear illiterate old saints have outstripped wits 



D'ARCY WENT WORTH THOMPSON. 429 

and critics and scholars and theologians on their journey to an 
unaspirated Heaven. 

Not many years ago the patrons of a large proprietary school 
in the West of England offered their headmastership to a very 
distinguished scholar, a friend of my own, on condition that he 
would take Holy Orders. It was more than insinuated that 
these Orders would merely affect the fashion of his necktie, and 
the prejudices of an enlightened public. My friend was a man of 
middle age, with habits and character thoroughly formed, and 
with as much idea of turning clergyman as of buying the prac- 
tice of a dentist. Consequently the offer, though pecuniarilj^ a very 
tempting one, was not accepted. My friend is prosecuting his 
journey heavenwards with a well-stored brain ; a rather ill-stored 
scrip; a white conscience; and a black tie. For my own part I 
regard such martyrdom as utterly out of place in a practical age. 
When the headmastership is next vacant, I trust the patrons will 
make a similar offer to me. They have merely to name their 
salary — and their bishop. 

XXII. 

The Social Position of Schoolmasters. 

Many of my school vacations I parsed in Bruges and Brussels, 
and made the acquaintance from time to time of boys of my own 
age attending the Athenees, or public schools of these towns. 
Indeed, my own brother received at such schools the.greater part 
of his education. The masters were laymen; in a country next 
to Spain perhaps the most bigotedly Catholic in Europe. The 
means of coercion at their disposal seemed to my young English 
ideas barbarously simple. No birch; no cane; not even the ridic- 
ulously mild strap. How on earth could pupils learn Latin ver- 
sification, or any other useful accomplishment, without such 
obviously requisite stimulants? However, their classes of rhet- 
oric, or senior classes, did turn out well-educated and most 
gentlemanly-mannered men. But the strangest thing to me was 
that the masters were never spoken of as occupying any pecuhar 
or comical position in society. It never seemed to strike a boy 



430 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

to speak in terms of ridicule of his schoolmaster aoy more than 
of his clergyman or medical attendant. In fact, society at large 
seemed unconsciously to regard the master of an Athenee as an 
ordinary gentleman, neither more nor less. 

One of the most polished and accomplished men I have ever 
had the honor of knowing was my brother's music-master, whose 
lessons were given at a rate that would appear to us ludicrously 
small. He associated on terms of perfect intimacy with families 
of very ancient lineage in the neighborhood of Bruges. He used 
to describe in the most humorous fashion the treatment he occa- 
sionally met with in English salons, whose occupants, of undoubt- 
edly high position at home, were temporarily residing abroad for 
reasons of financial retrenchment. 

I have had many relatives educated entirely in Florence, and 
have heard that the masters, who visited the leading schools 
there, held a social position in that not unaristocratic city quite 
equal to that of an ordinary barrister amongst ourselves. And 
these masters had no ecclesiastical title to raise them in the 
social scale. 

In England, at a very early period, the birch and cane were 
engrafted upon our educational system. They naturally made 
the position of a schoolmaster odious in the sight of children, 
and somewhat ludicrous in the eyes of the world, and especially 
so in the eyes of women. Now the English character is essentially 
practical, but by no means bigoted to logic. Their political Con- 
stitution might be theoretically assailed on many points; but it 
works satisfactorily as a whole. In the matter of education, 
England shows an equal disregard of logic and a,n equal de- 
termination of working good ends by any practical means. The 
position of a schoolmaster needed backing up, it seemed, in some 
way. Then make the schoolmaster a clergyman. Never mind 
the absurdity of calling upon a man to swear that he will spend 
and be spent in preaching the Glad Tidings, when he knows, and 
everybody knows, that he will pass his life in teaching the rudi- 
ments of Greek and Latin. With a practical people such obli- 
gations are generally understood in a practical way; and the 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 431 

practical way of understanding them seems, in this one instance, 
to lie in ignoring them partially or altogether. 

There can be little doubt that, without the aid of clerical pres- 
tige, no body of men could have continued to command public 
respect in spite of the odium and ridicule attached to such fla- 
grantly cruel implements as the cane and birch. The former of 
these, as I know to my cost, is painful in the extreme; and the 
infliction of the latter is always brutal, and very often abom- 
inably indecent. 

Now, in Scotland, whatever our faults may be — and Scottish 
writers on the London press purge us from time to time of our 
conceit — we are acknowledged to be a logical race. Consequently 
we call a schoolmaster a schoolmaster. We no more think of 
allowing him to take fictitious orders, than we should think 
of giving a haberdasher the fictitious name of M.D., and yet a 
schoolmaster in Scotland has certainly need of any aid that could 
be rendered for the improvement of his social status. The latter 
is far below that of any other professional body. Yet low as is 
comparatively the social position of the Scottish schoolmaster, 
he can point to his ridiculous but almost innocuous leather strap, 
and boast that he has contrived therewith to maintain discipline 
and stimulate to exertion, while a wealthier body, with rich en- 
dowments and ecclesiastical prestige, have made unsparing use 
of two instruments, whose barbarity as far exceeds that of his 
own strap, as the income of an Eton provost exceeds that of a 
rector of our high school. 

But to revert to the consideration of the social rank of a mas- 
ter in a Scottish grammar school. The rectors of the two chief 
Edinburgh schools are exceptions to the ordinary rule. They en- 
joy a social rank befitting the dignity of their oflncial duties. But 
how is it that the masters of classics, mathematics, and modern 
languages, in these and similar institutions, take by general con- 
sent a low^er place at feasts than a medical man of little practice, 
and an advocate of few briefs. 

In the social estimate of a whole order of men, I am inclined 
to think the world at large cannot be altogether wrong. There 



432 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

is generally fault on both sides. If, then, we schoolmasters are 
at fault, it would be of use if we could only hit upon our weak 
point. We might then give it a fair and serious consideration; 
and use means, if they could be suggested, for remedying the 
evil. 

I have heard it said by a gentleman of very high position, 
and of reputed scholarship, that the subordinate master in a 
great Scottish school is only expected by a Scottish public to be a 
man of ordinary attainments, who can drill his pupils well in the 
rudiments, and just keep pace with them in their higher reading. 
While such melancholy opinions are generally entertained of our 
craft, it is especially incumbent upon us to endeavor by our 
teaching and our lives to belie them. It is V)ecause we too often 
give in, for want of courage or proper pride, to such a condem- 
nation of our order that we continue to be members of a Pariah 
profession. We are too often contented with the limited intel- 
lectual stores that were laid in at college. We too often go unin- 
quiringly through a dull routine; caring little whether or no we 
carry the inclinations and sympathies of our boys along with us, 
so long as we get through the prescribed work, and preserve a 
mechanical discipline. We are not impressed with the fact that a 
schoolmaster cannot be too learned, too accomplished. Under 
any circumstances, something of the tedious must creep into the 
routine of school-work, and it will need a wide field of continual 
reading to enable one to illustrate and vivify daily lessons, that 
vary from the declension of penna, to the study of the Agamem- 
non. 

The pupils at our chief public schools study German and 
French. Should a master of the two great ancient languages be 
ignorant of linguistic studies, in which his pupils may be pro- 
ficient? No; he should outstrip them immeasurably in every 
department of study that bears upon his own. He should be so 
impressed with the dignity of his calling, — and what calling, 
save the cure of souls is more dignified? — so full of chastened 
respect for himself, as to command the respect of his pupils, 
though he may fail for a while to command that of the more un- 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 433 

thinking of the public. If we could only work ourselves up to 
some such standard we might then gradually dispense with that 
little leathern instrument, that still keeps a burr of ridicule 
attached to our black gowns. 

But, stop : am I again traveling to Utopia? Let me turn my 
hobby's head and gallop back to dear Dunedin. When a man's 
liver is out of order what on earth is the use of his doctor's tell- 
ing him to keep early hours; to use a cold tub; to live temper- 
ately, and take frequent outdoor exercise? Why, his grand- 
mother might have suggested that. W^hat the man wants is a 
blue pill or two. They can be taken in a minute; and he need not 
materially change his dietetics. Could not some such violent 
but easy remedy be suggested for the cure of our social abase- 
ment? Certainly. Why should barring-out be confined to boys? 
— or strikes to artisans? A fig for political economy! Let us 
form ourselves into a league and proclaim a general Strike of 
Schoolmasters! There will be some sneaking recusants among 
us ; but we will brain them with their own dictionaries. 

Some summer morning Scotland will awake and find every 
grammatical fountain frozen. What fun it will be for the boys I 
For a week the parents may outface the inconvenience; but in a 
month the animal, always latent in boyhood, will be growing 
rampant and outrageous. Gradually it will develop, unsoothed 
by the influences of grammar, unchecked by the sterner influences 
of our magic leather. No father will be safe in his own house. 
The smaller boys will be smoking brown paper in the drawing- 
room, and the older boys wallowing in Bass and cavendish in the 
lower kitchen. 

Meanwhile, calmly reposing in the stillness of his back parlor, 
M'Gillicuddy will be putting the finishing stroke to that folio 
edition of '' Cornelius Nepos," on which his fame in after ages is 
to rest; and I, in my aerial lodgings, shall be setting to Greek 
iambics the moral aphorisms of the great Tupper, whose terse- 
ness and originality are the wonder of a grateful people. 

Our hospitable provost, like his predecessor in olden days when 
the Enghsh were marching north, will hold a meeting of troubled 

T. L— 28 



434 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

citizens. They will meet in arms; each father will be provided 
w^ith his life-preserver of cut leather. One speaker will tell how 
nouns are at a fabulous premium ; that an adjective may not be 
had for love or money. Another will tell the horrible tale, how 
w^hole families have for weeks subsisted on the smallest preposi- 
tions. They will attempt a compromise. We shall decline treat- 
ing on such terms. They will surrender unconditionally; and our 
terms — monstrous as they may seem — shall be as follows: 

A schoolmaster, who shall have graduated at an university, 
shall hereafter be addressed, personally or epistolarily, with the 
courtesy usually shown to a second-rate solicitor or a briefless 
advocate. 

Whosoever shall wittingly and willfully offend against the 
above decree, let him for the first offense be dismissed after due 
admonition ; but, on a second offense being proven, let him be 
sentenced to parse verbatim, the folio edition of M'Gillicuddy's 
<'Nepos," declining all nouns, conjugating all verbs, and repeat- 
ing all syntax rules, usque ad Bei ipsius et totius Curiw nauseam. 

XXIII. 

Tint, Tint, Tint. 

(Lost. Lost, Lost.) 

It is now twelve years ago that I was for the first time brought 
face to face with a class, some fifty in number, of little Latin 
novices. They all regarded me with sensations of wonderment and 
awe; they had but a faint idea, luckily, of the terror with which 
I regarded them. I had, certainly, the recollections of my own 
long elementary training to guide me in my proceedings ; and I 
had the traditions of the school, to which I had been recently 
appointed as master, to direct my uncertain steps. But the 
recollections of my own training were all tinged with melan- 
choly; and with the traditions of my new sphere of duty I was 
but imperfectly acquainted. 

In the middle of my class-room stood a machine, somewhat 
resembling a patent engine for the simultaneous polishing of 
many knives; and I was desired to take a firm grasp of its 



D'ARCY WENTWORTE THOMPSON. 435 

wooden handle, and to turn it with vigor and rapidity. And an 
implement of simple leather was put into my hands, by the dex- 
terous application of which I was to quicken the apprehensions 
of such children as might be uninfluenced by the monotonous 
music of my gerund-stone. 

And for many a day, obedient to tradition and to my orders, 
I turned rapidly the wooden handle, and flourished vigorously 
the simple implement to the very best of my ability. But, 
strange to say, although I was then youthful and strong, and 
eaten up with a superfluous zeal for my calling, I could never turn 
the machine without its creaking painfully; and whenever I 
applied my leathern implement to a child's palm, I was immedi- 
ately conscious of a thrill, as of electricity, that ran from my 
finger-tips to the very center of my nervous system; and some- 
times, after the performance of such an ordinary act of duty, I 
would find myself standing before my pupils with a heightened 
color upon my face, and a tingling in my ears; and to a looker-on 
I should have appeared as one ashamed of having done some 
questionable deed. 

Finding all my efforts unavailing to work smoothly and 
noiselessly my mechanical engine of instruction, I at length relin- 
quished it altogether; and it has been now standing for years in 
a side-room adjoining my place of business, and is covered over 
with cobwebs, and rusted at the juncture of the stone and handle. 

To supply the place of its simple mechanism, I brought to 
bear upon my pupils all the moral and intellectual means at my 
disposal. I spared myself neither in the matter of time nor 
trouble in my endeavors to educe the dormant faculties of my 
charges; and enjoying as I did for many years a bodily health 
impervious to fatigue, and having a keen sympathy with boy- 
hood, I succeeded more and more until I almost ceased at 
length to regret the disappearance of my gerund-stone. 

But the more I gave satisfaction to myself, the less I gave 
satisfaction to the majority of my so-called patrons — the guard- 
ians of my young pupils. From time to time, when I was 
indulging in a dream of appreciated toil, I heard of complaints 



436 TEE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

being circulated by such as were favorers of mechanism in 
instruction. Pupils in whose progress I had begun to take a 
keen interest were from time to time removed without a word 
of explanation or the civility of a farewell. "They were not 
grounded, ^^ said these waggish but unraanerly guardians; 
meaning all the while, " They were not ground.'^ 

I had almost begun to despair of my system, and to think 
that I had mistaken my calling, and was casting about my eyes 
for some honest trade to which I might apprentice myself, when 
one afternoon my class was honored with a lengthened visit 
from a gentleman of acknowledged rank and worth and judg- 
ment. After the lesson was over I complained to this distin- 
guished visitor that my system of conveying instruction, as being 
natural and philosophic, was popularly considered a more 
diflBcult one for a pupil than the ancient turning of a piece of 
mechanism. My visitor, who had a son under my charge, stated 
his firm conviction that my system was not only likely to pro- 
duce better results, but was also in its operation far more easy 
and interesting for a young pupil to follow. From that moment 
I felt reassured, and determined never again to regret the 
absence of my gerund-stone. 

And now to treat of the loss of my other auxiliary implement. 
The application of this latter, I can honestly say, was never made 
excepting with the view of stimulating ever-dormant energies, 
and of repressing tendencies to chronic negligence or misconduct. 
I considered myself as an abstraction ; astheembodied represent- 
ative of the class ; and used the implement only to protect the 
interests of the latter, which suffered, to my mind, whenever one 
of its members, by carelessness or lack of study, turned upon him- 
self that stream of time and energy that should have run unin- 
terruptedly to the irrigation of the body corporate. In fact I 
made myself the dividend in a long division sum whose divisor 
was duty ; the quotient, I found, was teacher -\- superintendent, 
and the remainder, personal identity, which was very small in 
comparison with the divisor, and might practically be ignored. 
So, when a little fellow walked after me for a few days at the 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 437 

strikiDg of the bell, with his hands beneath imaginary coat-tails 
in imitation of my gait, I considered him as only joking with mein 
my capacity of remainder; and I merely asked him to desist, as 
otherwise I should make fun of him in revenge ; and he desisted. 
And when a boy wrote my name upon the desk, I was contented 
with showing him how he had misspelled it; and he rubbed it out 
at my request. And when a boy, years ago, put his tongue into 
his cheek after an admonition, I showed his comrades what little 
control he had over that organ ; knowing as I did that he in 
tended to protrude it on the side that would have been invisible 
to me. And I may state that such trifling incidents were of so 
rare occurrence that I could enumerate them all upon the fingers 
of one hand. 

But still, although I was conscious that I used the implement 
with good intent, and aware that it was similarly used by men 
who were my superiors in age, and certainly not my inferiors in 
kindliness and sympathy with boyhood, I was haunted with an 
idea that the use of it was founded on an error in our system of 
instruction, and I was long pondering where the error could lie; 
and I found the subject far more difficult than I had at first sup- 
posed, and I confess it still to be a problem difficult of solution. 

I was in this frame of mind one day, when, according to an 
unalterable rule, there came under the influence of the electric 
implement a little, quiet, well-behaved, and intelligent foreigner. 
The application had scarce been made when a young comrade — 
bless the lad!— gave vent to an unmistakable hiss! Order, of 
course, was immediately and energetically reestablished. But in 
my walk that afternoon by the sea, and in many a lonely walk 
afterwards, I thought about that little foreigner and his cour- 
ageous comrade. And I thought how that little foreigner, return- 
ing to his own land, the ancient home of courtesy and gentle 
manners, would tell his friends of our rude, northern ways. And 
I tremble at the idea of my usage of the Electric Leather being 
narrated in the hearing of one of those terrible colonels, whom 
their emperor holds with difficulty on the leash. For I thought if 
ever our great metropolis were in their hands, how ill it would 



438 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

fare with all therein that turned the gerund-stone, and with those 
therein that bare my hapless surname. And the name of these 
is Legion. And knowing that the comrade was no vulgar and 
low-natured boy, I felt sure in my heart that there was at least 
something right in the impulse that had pushed him into danger 
and disobedience. But still I was afraid of allowing sentimental- 
ism or impulsiveness on my part to take the place of duty, how- 
ever stern and unpalatable. 

I was standing not alone one morning in the lobby of my 
own home, just before leaving for the day's work. A great- 
coat of mine was hanging from the wall. My companion, in a 
playful mood, put a small white hand into one of its pockets, 
and drew a something out; then thrust it back hurriedly as 
though it had been a something venomous. And over a very 
gentle face passed a look of surprise notunmingled with reproof; 
but the reproof gave way almost momently to the wonted smile. 
But I long remembered the mild reproof upon that gentle face, 
for it was an expression very seldom seen there; and it came 
afterwards to be numbered with other sad and sweet memories. 

Meanwhile, at the end of the last bench upon my class sat 
a boy who was very backward in his learning. He was con- 
tinually absent upon what seemed to me frivolous pretenses. 
These absences entailed upon me much additional trouble. I 
had occasionally to "keep him and a little remnant in the room 
when the others had gone out to play; to make up to him and 
them for lost time. And on one occasion my look was very 
cross, and my speech very short; for it seemed to me provoking 
that children should be so backward in their Latin. And when 
the work was over and we two were left alone, he followed me to 
my desk, and said, '*You have no idea, sir, how weak I am." 
And I said, "Why, my boy, you look stout enough." But he 
answered, '' I am really very weak, sir, far weaker than I look ! " 
and there was a pleading earnestness in his words that touched 
me to the heart; and afterwards, there was an unseen chord of 
sympathy that bound the master to the pupil, who was still very 
dull at Latin. 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 439 

And still he would be absent; at times, for a day or two 
together. But it excited no surprise. For the boy seemed to sit 
almost a stranger among his fellows, and in play-hours seemed 
to take no interest in boyish games. And by and by he had been 
absent for some weeks together. But I was afraid to ask con- 
cerning him; thinking he might have been removed, as many 
boys had been, without a letter of explanation, or his shaking 
me by the hand. And one morning I received a letter with a 
broad black edge, telling me that he had died the day previously 
of a virulent contagious fever. 

So when school was over I made ray way to his whilom lodg- 
ing, and stood at the door, pondering. For the fever, of which 
the child had died, had been to me a Death-in-life, and had passed 
like the Angel of old over my dwelling; but, unlike that angel, 
had spared my first-born, and only-born. And because the lat- 
ter sat each evening on my knee, I was afraid of the fever, and 
intended only to leave my card, as a mark of respectful sympathy. 
But the good woman of the house said, " Nay, nay, sir, but ye'll 
see the laddie; " and I felt drawn by an influence of fatherhood 
more constraining than a father's fears, and followed the good 
woman into the small and dim chamber where my pupil was 
lying. And, as I passed the threshold, my masterhood slipped off 
me like a loose robe; and I stood, very humble and pupil-like, in 
that awful Presence, that teacheth a wisdom to babes and 
sucklings, to which our treasured lore is but a jingling of vain 
words. And when left alone, I drew near the cheerless and dis- 
mantled bed, on which my pupil lay asleep in his early coflEin. 
And he looked very calm and happy, as though there had been to 
him no pain in passing from a world where he had had few com- 
panions and little pleasure. And I knew that his boyhood had 
been as dreary as it had been short; and I thought that the 
good woman of his lodging had perhaps been his only sympa- 
thizing friend at hand. And I communed with myself whether 
aught I had done could have made his dullness more dull. And I 
felt thankful for the chord of sympathy that had united us, un- 
seen, for a little while. But, in a strange and painful way, I stood 



440 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

rebuked before the calm and solemn and unrebuking face of the 
child on whom I had frowned for his being backward in his 
Latin. 

That evening, as usual, my own child was seated on my knee, 
making sunrise out of sunset for myself and his mother's mother. 
And the table was alive with moo-cows, and bow-wows, and silly 
sheep. And we sang snatches of impossible songs, or hid our- 
selves behind chairs and curtains in a barefaced and undeceitful 
manner. And the penates at my hearth, that were chipped and 
broken, blinked merrily by the fire-light; and the child was taken 
to his tiny bed; and the chipped penates, thereupon, slowly 
faded out of view, and disappeared among the cinders. 

And I sat, musing, alone. And yet not all alone. For in the 
chair, where recently had been sitting the mother of my child's 
mother, there sat a gray transparent shape. And the shape and 
I- were familiar friends. He had sat with me many a time from 
midnight until when the morning had come peeping through the 
green lattice. And he had peopled all the chambers of my house 
with sad thoughts and black-stoled memories. So, never heed- 
ing my familiar friend, T sat, staring in the fire, and thinking. 

And I thought, sadly and almost vindictively, of the dreary 
years of my own early boyhood, with their rope of sand, and the 
mill-wheel that had ground no corn. And I remembered how at 
times there would come to me in my exile the sound of my 
brother's laugh , and the sweeter music of my mother's voice. But 
I remembered, thankfully, that through years of monotonous 
work and rough usage I had enjoyed sound health, and had had 
companions with whom I had walked and talked, and romped 
and fought, cheerily. 

And I wondered whether T should be spared to see my own 
child grow to be a merry and frank-hearted little fellow ; to hear 
the music of his ringing laugh; to see his face flushed with rude 
but healthful sport; to hear of him as beloved for many boyish 
virtues, and reproved, not unlovingly, for his share of boyish 
faults. And I longed to be climbing with him the hillof difliculty, 
and lightening the ascent for him with varied converse ; resting 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 441 

now and then to look down upon the valley, or to let him gather 
blue-bells that grew on the hillside. 

And then I thought of a boy who had sat of late on the last 
bench in my class-room, with a timid and scared look, beside his 
bluff and bold companions; who had stood in the noisy play- 
ground, lonely as in a wilderness ; whom I had seen that after- 
noon in his early coflSn, with the seal upon his forehead of ever- 
lasting peace; the peace that passeth all understanding. 

So I determined — from the recollections of my own dreary 
boyhood; for the mild reproof that once had clouded momently 
very gentle eyes ; for the love I bear my own little one; and for 
the calm and unrebuking face I had seen that afternoon — that 
I would do as little as possible in the exercise of my stern duties 
to make of life a weariness to young children; and especially to 
such as should be backward in their Latin. 



XXIV. 

The Pressure of Gentleness. 

A close relation of my own was for twelve years an oflBcer in 
almost the severest of all continental services. In that chivalric 
army is conserved a traditional discipline whose details would 
appall a democrat, and the exactions of which could only be 
endured by an obedient and military race. He tells me that, in 
his long experience, he only met with one captain who, in dealing 
with his company, avowedly ignored all means of physical coer- 
cion. On this captain's breast were the orders of two kingdoms 
and two empires. After one well-fought day he had been voted 
by acclamation as a candidate for the Order of the Iron Crown, 
which he would have obtained had he added his own signature to 
those of all his brother oflBcers ; and yet so soft-hearted was this 
chevalier sans peur that any slattern beggar-woman could draw 
from him an ill-spared florin. In a village where a portion of the 
regiment was once quartered, the good cure at the close of a ser- 
mon on Christian character, told his flock that if they wished to 
see Christianity in action, they might see it in a captain of Grena- 



442 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

diers, who clothed their poorest children with his pocket-money, 
and whose closest companion was ignorant of his good deeds. 
This captain's company was noted as being the best dressed and 
the best conducted in the regiment. There were at Solferino (and 
there^are, alas! such cases in all engagements) cases of gallant 
but stern officers that fell by a traitorous bullet from behind. 
There was not one man in the company of this captain that 
would not have taken in his stead a bullet aimed at him from 
the front. 

A year and a half ago I met in Yorkshire an invalid young 
sailor. From his smooth face, short stature, and attenuated 
form, I should have taken him for a senior midshipman. To my 
complete astonishment I found he was commander of a Pacific 
liner, with a numerous crew under his orders, and in receipt of a 
splendid income. He had been third in command, when the two 
seniors had taken fever, and his gallantry under trying circum- 
stances of all kinds had procured his unusually early promotion. 
I discussed with him the theory of discipline. He considered 
physical chastisement as brutal; swearing as un-Christian ; and 
hectoring as unmanly. "The man who cannot control himself 
is not fit to command a crew," he said, tritely and truly. I 
looked in wonder at this shrimp of a man, that was speaking 
with such calm confidence. '^I never," he continued, ''raise my 
voice above its usual tone to enforce an order." He was worn 
to skin and bone by a chest disorder of long continuance, which 
he considered would close his hfe at no distant date. I could 
have pushed him over with a rude jostle of my elbow. But there 
was something in his face that told you unmistakably he was 
not the man with whom to take a liberty. He gave me a remark- 
able anecdote of himself. His ship was alongside of an American 
liner in the Liverpool docks. The Yankee captain was dining 
with him, and the conversation fell upon the means of maintain- 
ing order in a crew. The Yankee scouted all means but the 
stick. He and his mates used on principle the most brutal 
means of coercion. During their argument the steward came to 
announce that the English crew were fighting the Yankees on the 



D'ARCY WENTWOETH THOMPSOX. 443 

neighboring vessel. The captains went on deck, and the Eng- 
lishman, slinging himself by a rope, alighted in the midst of an 
uproarious crowd. "Well, my men," said he, "so you are 
making beasts of yourselves, and disgracing your captain.'^ 
And the big fellows slunk off without a word to their own vessel, 
and one or two of the ringleaders were set for an hour or two 
to swab the decks. But of the quarreling tars there was not a 
man but could have lifted his wee captain and dropped him over- 
board without an effort. I trust to God he may yet be living, 
and may long be spared, as a specimen of a quiet, resolute Eng- 
lish Christian skipper. 

My chiefest friend at school was a man of widest mental cult- 
ure, of even temper, and of sound judgment. Among his friends 
and my own at Trinity I knew a few men of similarly high stamp. 
I remember one man, in particular, in whom the scholar and the 
Christian so curiously blended, that it would be difficult to say 
where his Latin ended and his religion began. He was a spiritual 
and mental merman. But if I were called upon to name the 
Aristides of my life-acquaintance, I should name a man whom I 
never knew till I had crossed the Tweed. I believe it would be as 
hard to warp a Carlyle into sentimental or religious cant, and a 
prophet-Cumming into common-sense and modesty, as to twist 
the nature of my friend into petty words or illiberal action. 

He was once the superintendent of a public educational insti- 
tution. He had been present one day in the drill-ground, where 
an honest sergeant with a good deal of superfluous bluster was 
putting a little regiment through its facings. When the boys 
were dismissed the sergeant approached his superior, and said : 
"Excuse the liberty, sir; but really, when you are more used to 
boys, you'll find that you must put more pepper into what you 
do and say." "Well," said my friend, "every man has his own 
way; for my own part, I don't believe in pepper." 

A few weeks afterwards the principal was in his library, when 
the sergeant was ushered in. "I've come, sir," said the latter, 
"' to ask a favor. Those boys are a little troublesome at times. 
If you'd be kind enough just to stand at your drawing-room 



444 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

window for a few minutes when drill was going on, it would do a 
deal of good; if you'd only stand for a few minutes, reading a 
newspaper." 

Ah! worthy sergeant, your pepper won't do, after all. No, 
friend, keep it for your vegetables, and use it then in moderation. 

I hold that men may be called of God to more offices than the 
holy one of the Christian ministry. There was an under-officer 
at my old school, who to me seemed always to partake largely of 
some of the finest attributes of the gentleman. He had failed, 
through continued ill-health, in business as a book-seller, and was a 
well-read man. He was uniformly civil and respectful to us senior 
scholars; but while we could tip and bribe others, we could never 
venture on the liberty of an unadorned surname with him. This 
man was called to the humble office of maintaining order in the 
school-yard. So there are men called to command men on the 
field of battle, and boys in the schoolroom, I have met with a 
schoolmaster in Scotland who could govern a crowd of boys in 
one room, though they might be divided into scattered groups, 
and engaged in varied work; and his only implements of disci- 
pline were a word or two of good-natured banter or kindly encour- 
agement, and occasionally a calm and stern rebuke. I have 
been much struck by the expression of his opinion, that physical 
coercion cannot be dispensed with altogether. In defiance, how- 
ever, of a kindness, a sagacity, and a judgment that I respect, I 
do most firmly believe that the necessity for physical chastise- 
ment rests mainly upon two blemishes in our ordinary school 
system: the mechanical nature of our routine of work, and the 
crowding of our class-rooms. In the latter respect, we are more 
at fault than our English brethren ; in the former, we are far less 
sinning. In the teaching of our elementary classes we employ 
far more spirit, and far less wood; and I wish I could add, no 
leather. There is less of a gulf between pupil and master. The 
severest means of physical chastisement at the disposal of the 
latter is almost innocuous. But mild as our implement may be 
from the point of view of physical pain inflicted, its employment 
is of necessity associated with some degree of odium, and a more 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 445 

formidable amount of ridicule. I am convinced that many chil- 
dren imagine that we schoolmasters were as naturally born with 
tawse, as foxes with tails. Did you ever see children in a nursery 
play at school? The rule seems to be for the elder brother to 
play our part ; and that part is limited to the fun or business of 
flogging all his little sisters. 

We have gone a great way already in Scotland in the way of 
civilized teaching, in forbearing to use an instrument of acute 
pain and an instrument of indecent brutality. Let us make a 
further advance, and if we can invent some intellectual and 
moral substitute for our ridiculous scourges let us send the 
latter in bundles to the public schools of England, to be there 
adopted when their system is sufiiciently ripened by a few extra 
centuries of Christianity. Let us clothe their scholastic naked- 
ness with the last rags of our barbarism. Our boys will be none 
the less manly and respectful. Flogging can never instil courage 
into a child, but it has helped to transform many an one into a 
sneak. And sneakishness is a vice more hard to eradicate than 
obduracy. So far from curing an ill-conditioned boy of rude and 
vulgar ways, it is calculated rather to render inveterate in him 
a distaste for study, and a solid hatred of our craft. 

Let us be less careful of the mere number of our classes, and 
more careful of their intellectual culture. Let us care more for 
what we think of ourselves, than w^hat the public think of us. 
The respect of others follows upon self-respect. Let us not care 
to be called of men, Eabbi, Babbi. Let us be content with 
classes of limited numbers, every member of which can keep 
pace with a properly advancing curriculum. Let us aim at a 
broad and invigorating culture, not a narrow and pedantic one ; 
let us ignore examinations of College or Civil service, and aim 
only at the great and searching examination of actual life. Let 
our aims be high and generous, irrespective of the exactions of 
unreasoning parents and well-meaning but unqualified inter- 
meddlers; let our means of coercion be dignified, in spite of the 
trials to which our tempers may be exposed. Let us endeavor 
to make our pupils love their work without fearing us. They 



446 THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE. 

may live — God knows — to love us. Whether they ever love us 
or not perhaps matters but little, if we do our work single- 
heartedl3^ The mens conscm recti is of itself no mean reward. 
I am, perhaps, an enthusiast; but I have an idea that, ere a 
generation is passed away, the last sound of the last tawse will 
be heard in the leading- grammar-schools of Scotland. Her 
scholars will be none the worse taught, and her schoolmasters 
none the less respected, w^hen instruction has been made less 
rugged in her aspect, and discipline is maintained by the more 
than hydraulic pressure of a persistent and continuous gentle- 
ness. 

And, brother schoolmaster, remember evermore the exceed- 
ing dignity of our calling. It is not the holiest of all callings ; 
but it runs near and parallel to the holiest. The lawyer's wits 
are sharpened, and his moral sense not seldom blunted, by a life- 
long familiarity with ignorance, chicanery, and crime. The phy- 
sician, in the exercise of a more beneficent craft, is saddened con- 
tinually by the spectacle of human weakness and human pain. 
We have usually to deal with fresh and unpolluted natures. A 
noble calling, but a perilous! We are dressers in a moral and 
mental vineyard. We are undersheperds of the Lord's little ones ; 
and our business is to lead them into green pastures, by the sides 
of refreshing streams. Let us into our linguistic lessons intro- 
duce cunningly and imperceptibly all kinds of amusing stories ; 
stories of the real kings of earth, that have reigned in secret, 
crownless and unsceptred; leaving the vain show of power to 
gilded toy-kings and make-believe statesmen; of the angels that 
have walked the earth in the guise of holy men and holier women ; 
of the seraph-singers, whose music will be echoing forever; of the 
cherubim of power, that with the mighty wind of conviction and 
enthusiasm have winnowed the air of pestilence and superstition. 

Yes, friend, throw a higher poetry than all this into your lin- 
guistic work; the poetry of pure and holy motive. Then, in the 
coming days, when you are fast asleep under the green grass, 
they will not speak lightly of you over their fruit and wine, mim- 
icking your accent, and retailing dull, insipid boy pleasantries. 



D'ARCY WENTWORTH THOMPSON. 447 

Enlightened by the experience of fatherhood, they will see with a 
clear remembrance your firmness in dealing with their moral 
faults, your patience in dealing with their intellectual weakness. 
And, calling to mind the old schoolroom, they will think : ''Ah ! 
it was good for us to be there. For, unknown to us, were made 
therein three tabernacles : one for us, and one for our school- 
master, and one for Him that is the Friend of all children, and 
the Master of all schoolmasters." 

Ah ! believe me, brother mine, where two or three children are 
met together, unless He, who is the Spirit of gentleness, be in the 
midst of them, then our Latin is but sounding brass, and our 
Greek a tinkling cymbal. 



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